CARTER 

AND 

OTHER  PEOPLE 
DON  MARQUIS 


BOOKS    BY    DON    MARQUIS 

PREFACES 

HERMIONE 

GARTER 

NOAH  AN'  JONAH  AN' 
GAP'N  JOHN  SMITH 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


T247 


CARTER 

AND 

OTHER  PEOPLE 

BY 

DON  MARQUIS 

AUTHOR  OF   "HERMIONE,"    "PREFACES,"    "NOAH 
AN'   JONAH    AN'    CAP'N    JOHN    SMITH,"   ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  :  LONDON  :  MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1918,  1920,  1921,  by  The  Ridgway  Company 

Copyright,  1921,  by  The  Pictorial  Review,  Inc. 

Copyright,  1916,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 

Copyright,   1920,   by  The  New  Republic 

Copyright,   1907,   1908,  by   G.   P.   Putnam's  So«s 

PRINTED    IN   THE  UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  the 
editors  of  several  magazines  for  permission  to 
reprint  the  following  stories  in  book  form.  "Car 
ter"  was  originally  published  in  Harpers  Monthly 
Magazine  under  the  title  "The  Mulatto."  "Death 
and  Old  Man  Murtrie"  was  printed  in  The  New 
Republic;  others  were  first  brought  out  in  Every 
body's  Magazine,  Short  Stories,  Putnam's  Maga 
zine  and  the  Saturday  Evening  Post.  "The  Peni 
tent"  was  originally  printed  in  The  Pictorial  Re 
view,  with  the  title  "The  Healer  and  the  Peni 
tent."  The  plot  of  this  story  is  taken  from  two 
poems,  one  by  Browning  and  one  by  Owen  Mere 
dith.  Happening  to  read  these  two  poems,  one 
after  the  other,  I  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  Owen 
Meredith  had  unwittingly  written  what  was  in 
effect  a  continuation  of  a  situation  invented  by 
Browning;  the  plot  of  the  one  poem,  telescoped 
into  the  plot  of  the  other,  made  in  effect  a  complete 
short  story.  I  pasted  the  two  situations  together, 
so  to  speak,  inventing  an  ending  of  my  own,  and 
had  a  short  story  which  neither  Browning  nor 
Owen  Meredith  could  claim  as  his — and  which  I 
scarcely  have  the  nerve  to  claim  as  mine.  And 
yet  this  story,  taken  piecemeal  from  the  two  poets, 
gave  me  more  trouble  than  anything  else  I  ever 
tried  to  write;  it  was  all  there,  apparently;  but  to 

v 


FOREWORD 

transpose  the  story  into  a  modern  American  set-, 
ting  was  a  difficult  job.  It  is  my  only  essay  in 
conscious  plagiarism — I  hate  to  call  it  plagiarism,, 
but  what  else  could  one  call  it? — and  I  give  you 
my  word  that  it  is  easier  to  invent  than  to  pragiar- 
ize.  The  one-act  play,  "Words  and  Thoughts," 
was  written  ten  years  ago — in  191 1 — and  has  been 
offered  to  every  theatrical  manager  in  America, 
and  refused  by  them  all.  I  still  believe  in  it  as  a 
thing  that  could  be  acted  with  effect,  and  I  am 
determined  to  get  it  read,  even  if  I  cannot  get  it 
produced.  The  fact  that  it  has  been  going  the 
rounds  of  theatrical  managers  for  ten  years  is  no 
indication  that  it  has  ever  been  read. 

DON  MARQUIS 
NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     CARTER 3 

II.     OLD  MAN   MURTRIE 21 

III.  NEVER  SAY  DIE! 35 

IV.  McDERMOTT 55 

V.       LOONEY    THE    MUTT 89 

VI.     KALE        107, 

VII.     BUBBLES         135  v 

VIII.     THE  CHANCES  OF  THE  STREET     .      .      .  169 

IX.     THE  PROFESSOR'S  AWAKENING      .      .     .  185 

X.     THE  PENITENT 223 

XL     THE  LOCKED  Box 245 

XII.     BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 263 

XIII.    WORDS    AND    THOUGHTS    (A    ONE-ACT 

PLAY)         285 


/. — Carter 


/. — Carter 

CARTER  was  not  exactly  a  negro,  but  he  was  a 
"nigger."  Seven  drops  of  his  blood  out  of  every 
eight  were  Caucasian.  The  eighth,  being  Afri 
can,  classified  him.  The  white  part  of  him  de 
spised  and  pitied  the  black  part.  The  black  part 
hated  the  white  part.  Consequently,  wherever 
Carter  went  he  carried  his  own  hell  along  inside 
of  him. 

Carter  began  to  learn  that  he  was  a  nigger  very 
early  in  life.  Nigger  children  are  not  left  long  in 
doubt  anywhere,  and  especially  in  the  South.  Car 
ter  first  saw  the  light — and  the  shadows — of  day 
in  Atlanta.  The  color  line  itself,  about  which  one 
hears  so  much  talk,  seemed  to  run  along  one  end 
of  the  alley  in  which  he  was  born.  It  was  an  alley 
with  a  gutter  and  a  great  deal  of  mud  in  it.  At 
the  corner,  where  it  gave  into  a  little  narrow 
street  not  much  better  than  an  alley  itself,  the  mud 
was  the  thickest,  deepest,  and  best  adapted  to 
sculptural  purposes.  But  in  the  little  streetjived  a 
number  of  white  families. . .  They  were  most~oT\ 
them  mill  hands,  and  a  numerous  spawn  of  skinny  : 
children,  little  "crackers,"  with  faces  white  and  sad 
even  from  babyhood,  disputed  the  mud  with  the 

[31 


Carter  and  Other  People 


nigger  children.^  Nigger  babies  of  five,  four,  three, 
ancfeven  two,  understood  quite  well  that  this  most 
desirable  mud,  even  though  it  was  in  the  nigger 
alley,  was  claimed  by  the  white  babies  as  their 
mud.  It  was  in  every  way  a  more  attractive  sort 
of  mud  than  any  in  the  little  street  proper;  and 
juvenile  race  riots  were  of  almost  hourly  occur- 
]  rence — skirmishes  in  which  the  very  dogs  took 
part.  For  the  dogs  grasped  the  situation  as  clearly 
as  did  the  children;  a  "nigger"  dog,  even  though 
he  may  have  started  in  life  as  a  white  man's  dog,' 
soon  gets  a  certain  look  about  him. 

So  there  was  no  chance  for  Carter  to  escape  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  a  nigger.  But  it  was  with 
a  thrill  that  he  perceived  in  his  youthful  excursions 
from  the  home  alley,  that  he  was  sometimes  mis 
taken  for  a  white  child.  He  was  so  white  in  cplor 
that  one  could  not  tell  he  was  a  nigger  at  a  casual 
glance. 

As  he  grew  up,  he  made  another  discovery  thaf 
elated  and  embittered  him  still  more.  He  found 
out  who  his  father  was — or  rather,  who  his  father 
had  been,  since  he  never  saw  that  gentleman.  The 
white  blood  in  Carter's  veins  was  no  common  ichor. 
'  Because  white  people  seldom  speak  of  these  things 
it  does  not  follow  that  they  are  not  known  pretty 
generally  among  the  negroes.  They  are,  in  fact,* 
discussed. 

Carter  went  to  school ;  he  made  the  further  dis 
covery  that  he  had  brains — uwhite  man's  brains" 
is  the  way  he  put  it  to  himself.  Given  the  oppor- 

Ul 


Carter 


tunity,  he  told  himself,  he  could  go  as  far  as  the 
average  white  man — perhaps  further  than  the 
average.  The  white  man's  standard,  nigger  though 
he  was,  was  still  the  standard  by  which  he  must 
measure  himself.  But  the  opportunity!  Even  as 
"the  youth  prepared  himself  for  it  he  perceived, 
hopelessly,  that  it  would  be  denied  him. 

As  he  matured  he  began  to  feel  a  strange,  secret 
pride  in  that  white  family  whose  blood  he  shared. 
He  familiarized  himself  with  its  genealogy.  There 
is  many  a  courtier  who  cannot  trace  his  ancestry 
as  far  back  as  Carter  could.  One  of  his  forebears 
had  signed  Magna  Charta;  several  had  fought  in 
the  Revolutionary  War.  There  had  been  a  United 
States  Senator  in  the  family,  and  a  Confederate 
General.  At  times,  feeling  the  vigorous  impulse  of 
hereditary  instinct  and  ambitions,  Carter  looked 
upon  himself  as  all  white  man,  but  never  for  long, 
nor  to  any  purpose.  The  consciousness  of  his 
negro  blood  pulled  him  down  again. 

But,  as  he  grew  up,  he  ceased  to  herd  with  black 
negroes;  he  scorned  them.  He  crept  about  the 
world  cursing  it  and  himself — an  unfortunate  and 
bitter  creature  that  had  no  place ;  unfortunate  and 
bitter,  cursed  with  an  intellect,  denied  that  miti 
gation  that  might  have  come  with  a  full  share  of 
the  negro  jovialty  of  disposition,  forever  unrecon 
ciled. 

There  was  one  member  of  that  white  family 
from  which  he  drew  so  much  of  his  blood  whom 
Carter  particularly  admired.  Willoughby  How- 

[51 


Carter  and  Other  People 


ard  was  about  Carter's  own  age,  and  he  was 
Carter's  half-brother.  Howard  did  not  distin 
guish  Carter  from  any  other  mulatto ;  probably 
did  not  know  of  his  existence.  But  as  Howard 
reached  manhood,  and,  through  virtue  of  his 
wealth  and  standing  and  parts,  began  to  attain  an 
excellent  place  in  the  world,  his  rise  was  watched 
by  Carter  with  a  strange  intensity  of  emotion. 
Carter  in  some  occult  way  identified  himself  with 
V  the  career  of  Willoughby  Howard — ^sometimes  he 
almost  worshiped  Willoughby  Howard,  and  then 
he  hated  him ;  he  envied  him  and  raged  over  him 
with  the  same  breath. 

But  mostly,  as  the  isolation  of  his  own  condition 
ate  into  his  soul,  he  raged  over  himself;  he  pitied 
himself;  he  hated  himself.  Out  of  the  turmoil 
of  his  spirit  arose  the  one  despairing  cry,  Oh,  to 
be  white,  white,  white! 

Many  a  night  he  lay  awake  until  daybreak, 
measuring  the  slow  minutes  with  the  ceaseless  iter 
ation  of  that  useless  prayer:  Only  to  be  white! 
O  God,  for  one  little  year  of  being  white! 

Fruitless  hours  of  prayers  and  curses! 

Carter  went  North.  He  went  to  New  York. 
But  the  North,  which  affects  to  promise  so  much 
to  the  negro,  in  a  large,  loose,  general  way,  does 
not  perform  in  the  same  degree.  There  was  only 
one  thing  which  Carter  would  have  thanked  any 
one  for  performing;  it  was  the  one  thing  that 
could  never  be  performed — he  wanted  to  be  made 

[6] 


Carter 


white.  Sometimes,  indeed,  from  the  depths  of  his 
despair,  he  cried  out  that  he  wanted  to  be  alto 
gether  black;  but  in  his  soul  he  did  not  really 
want  that. 

Nevertheless,  at  several  different  periods  he 
yielded  to  temptation  and  "went  over  to  the 
whites."  In  the  South  he  could  not  have  done 
this  without  discovery,  in  spite  of  the  color  of 
his  skin.  But  in  the  Northern  cities,  with  their 
enormous  numbers  of  aliens,  all  more  or  less 
strange  to  the  American  eye,  Carter  found  no 
great  difficulty  in  passing  as  white.  He  "looked 
a  little  foreign"  to  the  casual  glance ;  that  was  all. 

But  if  there  was  no  great  difficulty  in  it,  there 

was  no  great  satisfaction  in  it,  either.    In  fact,  it 

only  made  him  the  more  bitter.     Others  might 

think  him  a  white  man,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  a 

snigger.  ^ 

The  incident  which  sent  him  back  South,  re 
solved  to  be  a  nigger,  and  to  live  and  die  among 
the  niggers,  might  not  have  affected  another  in  his 
condition  just  as  it  did  Carter.  But  to  him  it 
showed  conclusively  that  his  destiny  was  not  a 
matter  of  environment  so  much  as  a  question  of 
himself. 

He  fell  in  love.  The  girl  was  a  waitress  in  a 
cheap  restaurant  near  the  barber  shop  where  Car 
ter  worked.  She  was  herself  a  product  of  the 
East  Side,  struggling  upward  from  the  slums; 
partly  Italian,  with  some  Oriental  strain  in  her 
that  had  given  the  least  perceptible  obliqueness  to 

[7] 
t^u-t^  Vruu*- 


Carter  and  Other  People 

• 

her  eyes — one  of  those  rare  hybrid  products  which 
give  the  thinker  pause  and  make  him  wonder  what 
the  word  "American"  will  signify  a  century  from 
now;  a  creature  with  very  red  lips  and  very  black 
eyebrows;  she  seemed  to  know  more  than  she  really 
did;  she  had  a  kind  of  naive  charm,  a  sort  of 
allurement,  without  actual  beauty;  and  her  name 
had  been  Anglicized  into  Mary. 

And  she  loved  Carter.  This  being,  doomed 
from  the  cradle  to  despair,  had  his  moment  of 
romance.  But  even  in  his  intoxication  there  was 
no  hope;  his  elation  was  embittered  and  per 
plexed.  He  was  tempted  not  to  tell  the  girl  that 
he  was  a  nigger.  But  if  he  married  her,  and  did 
not  tell  her,  perhaps  the  first  child  would  telHicr. 
It  might  look  more  of  a  nigger  than  he  did. 

But  if  he  told  her,  would  she  marry  a  nigger? 
He  decided  he  would  tell  her.  Perhaps  his  con 
science  had  less  to  do  with  this  decision  than  the 
fatalism  of  his  temperament. 

So  he  made  his  revelation  one  Sunday  evening, 
as  they  walked  along  the  boardwalk  from  Coney 
Island  to  Brighton.  To  him,  it  was  a  tremendous 
moment.  For  days  he  had  been  revolving  in  his 
mind  the  phrases  he  would  use;  he  had  been  re 
hearsing  his  plea;  in  his  imagination  he  saw  some 
thing  spectacular,  something  histrionic,  in  his  con 
fession. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  as  they  sat  down  on  a  bench 
on  the  beach,  "there  is  something  I  think  I  ought 
to  tell  you  before  we  get  married." 

[8] 


Carter 

The  girl  turned  toward  him  her  big,  sleepy,  dark 
eyes,  which  always  seemed  to  see  and  understand 
so  much  more  than  they  really  did,  and  looked 
away  again. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  said — and  as  he  said 
it,  staring  out  to  sea,  he  was  so  imposed  upon  by 
the  importance  of  the  moment  to  himself  that  he 
almost  felt  as  if  the  sea  listened  and  the  waves 
paused — "I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  have  negro 
blood  in  my  veins." 

She  was  silent.  There  was  a  moment  before 
he  dared  look  at  her;  he  could  not  bear  to  read 
his  doom  in  her  eyes.  But  finally  he  did  muster 
up  courage  enough  to  turn  his  head. 

The  girl  was  placidly  chewing  gum  and  gazing 
at  an  excursion  vessel  that  was  making  a  landing 
at  one  of  the  piers. 

He  thought  she  had  not  heard.  "Mary,"  he 
repeated,  "I  have  negro  blood  in  my  veins." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  she.  "I  gotcha  the  first  time, 
Steve !  Say,  I  wonder  if  we  couldn't  take  the  boat 
back  to  town?  Huh?  Whatcha  say?" 

He  looked  at  her  almost  incredulous.  She  had 
understood,  and  yet  she  had  not  shrunk  away  from 
him!  He  examined  her  with  a  new  interest;  his 
personal  drama,  in  which  she,  perforce,  must 
share,  seemed  to  have  made  no  impression  upon 
her  whatsoever. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "that  it 
will — that  it  won't  make  any  difference  to  you? 

[9] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


That  you  can  marry  me,  that  you  will  marry  me, 
in  spite  of — of — in  spite  of  what  I  am?'1 

"Gee!  but  ain't  you  the  solemn  one!"  said  the 
girl,  taking  hold  of  her  gum  and  "stringing'*  it  out 
from  her  lips.  "Whatcha  s'pose  I  care  for  a  little 
thing  like  that?" 

He  had  looked  for  a  sort  of  dramatic  "situa 
tion";  and,  behold,  there  was  none!  There  was 
none  simply  because  the  girl  had  no  vantage  point 
from  which  to  look  at  his  life  and  hers.  He  had 
negro  blood  in  his  veins — and  she  simply  did  not 
care  one  way  or  the  other! 

He  felt  no  elation,  no  exultation;  he  believed 
that  she  should  have  cared;  whether  her  love  was 
great  enough  to  pardon  that  in  him  or  not,  she 
should  have  felt  it  as  a  thing  that  needed  pardon. 

As  he  stared  at  the  girl,  and  she  continued  to 
chew  her  gum,  he  swiftly  and  subtly  revised  his 
estimate  of  her;  and  in  his  new  appraisement  there 
was  more  than  a  tinge  of  disgust.  And  for  a  mo 
ment  he  became  altogether  a  white  man  in  his 
judgment  of  the  thing  that  was  happening;  he 
looked  at  the  situation  as  a  patrician  of  the  South 
might  have  looked  at  it;  the  seven  eighths  of  his 
blood  which  was  white  spoke : 

"By  God!"  he  said,  suddenly  leaping  to  his 
feet  and  flinging  aside  the  startled  hand  which  the 
girl  put  out  toward  him,  "I  can't  have  anything  to 
do  with  a  woman  who'd  marry  a  nigger!" 

So  Carter  went  back  to  Atlanta.     And,  curi- 

[10] 


Carter 


ously  enough,  he  stepped  from  the  train  almost 
into  the  midst  of  a  strange  and  terrible  conflict  of 
which  the  struggle  in  his  individual  breast  was, 
in  a  sense,  the  type  and  the  symbol. 

It  was  a  Saturday  night  in  September,  an  eve 
ning  on  which  there  began  a  memorable  and  san- 
gwinoFy^massacre  of  negroesjj^an  event  which  has 
been  variously  explained  and  analyzed,  but  of 
which,  perhaps,  the  underlying  causes  will  neveif 
be  completely  understooij 

There  was  riot  in  trie  streets,  a  whirlwind  of 
passion  which  lashed  the  town  and  lifted  up  the 
trivial  souls  of  men  and  spun  them  round  and 
round,  and  passed  and  left  the  stains  of  blood  be 
hind.  White  men  were  making  innocent  negroes 
suffer  for  the  brutal  crimes  of  guilty  negroes.  It 
had  been  a  hot  summer;  scarcely  a  day  had  passed 
during  July  and  August  without  bringing  to  the 
newspapers  from  somewhere  in  Georgia  a  report 
of  a  negro  assault  upon  some  white  woman.  A 
blind,  undiscriminating  anger  against  the  whole 
negro  race  had  been  growing  and  growing.  And 
when,  on  that  Saturday  afternoon,  the  newspapers 
reported  four  more  crimes,  in  rapid  succession,  all 
in  or  near  Atlanta,  the  cumulative  rage  burst  into 
a  storm. 

There  was  no  danger  for  Carter  in  the  streets; 
more  than  a  hasty  glance  was  necessary  to  spy  out 
his  negro  taint.  He  stood  in  a  doorway,  in  the 
heart  of  the  business  district  of  the  town,  and 
watched  the  wild  work  that  went  on  in  a  large, 

[ii] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


- 


irregular  plaza,  where  five  streets  come  together 
and  all  the  car  lines  in  the  place  converge.  .From 
this  roughly  triangular  plaza  leads  Decatur  Street," 
at  one  time  notorious  throughout  the  South  for  its 
negro  dives  and  gambling-dens. 


Now  and  then  Carter  could  hear  the  crack  of  a 
pistol,  close  at  hand  or  far  away;  and  again  some 
fleeing  negro  would  start  from  a  place  of  tempor- 
£ry  concealment,  at  the  approach  of  a  mob  that 
beat  its  way  along  a  street,  and  make  a  wild  dash 
for  safety,  as  a  rabbit  startled  from  the  sedge- 
grass  scurries  to  the  brush.  There  was  not  one 
mob,  but  several;  the  different  bands  united,  split 
up,  and  reunited,  as  the  shifting  winds  of  madness 
blew.  The  plaza,  with  arc  lights  all  about  it,  was 
the  brilliantly  illuminated  stage  on  which  more 
than  one  scene  of  that  disgusting  melodrama  was 
played  out;  from  some  dim  hell  of  gloom  and 
clamor  to  the  north  or  east  would  rush  a  shouting 
group  that  whirled  and  swayed  beneath  the  lights, 
dancing  like  flecks  of  soot  in  their  brightness,  to 
disappear  in  the  gloom  again,  shouting,  cursing, 
and  gesticulating,  down  one  of  the  thoroughfares 
to  the  west  or  south.  And  to  Carter,  in  whose 
heart  there  waxed  a  fearful  turmoil  of  emotions, 
even  as  the  two  races  clashed  along  the  echoing 
streets,  there  was  a  strange  element  of  unreality 
about  it  all;  or,  rather,  the  night  was  dreadful 
with  that  superior  reality  which  makes  so  much 
more  vivid  than  waking  life  the  intense  experi 
ence  of  dreams.  Carter  thrilled;  he  shook;  he  was 

[12] 


Carter 


torn  with  terror  and  pity  and  horror  and  hatred. 

No  white  man  felt  all  that  Carter  felt  that  night; 
nor  yet  any  negro.  For  he  was  both,  and  he  was 
neither;  and  he  beheld  that  conflict  which  was  for 
ever  active  in  his  own  nature  dramatized  by  fate 
and  staged  with  a  thousand  actors  in  the  lighted 
proscenium  at  his  feet. 

This  thought  struck  Carter  himself,  and  he 
turned  toward  another  man  who  had  paused  in 
the  doorway,  with  no  clear  intention,  but  perhaps 
with  the  vague  impulse  of  addressing  him,  as  a 
point  of  solid  contact  and  relief  from  the  sense  of, 
hurrying  nightmare  that  possessed  both  the  streets 
and  his  own  spirit. 

Startled,  he  saw  that  the  other  man  was  Wil- 
loughby  Howard.  Carter  hesitated,  and  then  ad 
vanced  a  step.  But  whatever  he  had  to  say  was 
interrupted  by  a  crowd  that  swept  past  them  from 
Decatur  Street  in  pursuit  of  a  panting  negro.  The 
fleeing  colored  man  was  struck  a  dozen  times;  he 
fell  at  the  street  corner  near  them,  and  the  mob 
surged  on  again  into  the  darkness  beyond,  already 
in  full  chase  of  another  quarry — all  but  one  man, 
who  left  the  mob  and  ran  back  as  if  to  assure  him 
self  that  the  prostrate  negro  was  really  dead. 

This  was  a  short  man,  a  very  short  man,  a  dwarf 
with  a  big  head  too  heavy  for  him,  and  little  bandy 
legs — legs  so  inadequate  that  he  wabbled  like  an 
overfed  poodle  when  he  ran.  Carter  had  seen  him 
twice  before  that  night,  dodging  in  and  out  among 
the  feet  of  the  rioters  like  an  excited  cur,  stumbling, 

[13] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


falling,  trodden  upon;  a  being  with  bloodshot  eyes 
and  matted  hair,  hoarse  voice  and  menacing  fist, 
drunken  and  staggering  with  blood  lust;  the  very 
Gnome  of  Riot  himself  come  up  from  some  foul 
cave  and  howling  in  the  streets.  "Kill  them !  Kill 
them !"  he  would  cry,  and  then  shake  with  cackling 
laughter.  But  he  was  only  valiant  when  there  was; 
no  danger.  As  he  approached  the  negro  who  lay 
upon  the  ground,  and  bent  over  him,  Willoughby 
Howard  stepped  down  from  the  doorway  and 
aimed  a  blow  at  the  creature  with  a  cane.  The 
blow  missed,  but  the  dwarf  ran  shrieking  down 
Decatur  Street. 

Howard  bent  over  the  negro.  The  negro 
stirred;  he  was  not  dead.  Howard  turned  toward, 
Carter  and  said: 

"He's   alive!     Help  me  get  him  out  of  the 


street." 


Together  they  lifted  the  wounded  man,  moving 
him  toward  the  curbstone.  He  groaned  and 
twisted,  and  they  laid  him  down.y  Howard  poured 
tyhisky  into  him  from  a  pocket  flask,  and  a  little 
Ihter  he  managed  to  struggle  to  a  sitting  posture 
on  the  curb,  looking  up  at  them  with  dazed  eyes 
and  a  bloody  face. 

Howard  took  his  slow  gaze  from  the  negro  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Carter  watched  him. 

Of  all  men  in  the  world  this  was  the  one  whom 
Carter  most  honored  and  most  loved — honored 
and  loved,  while  he  envied;  he  was  the  only  man, 

[14] 


Carter 


perhaps,  that  could  have  touched  Carter  through 
his  crust  of  bitterness.  Carter  listened  with 
strained  attention  for  what  Howard  would  say, 
as  if  with  some  premonition  that  the  words  would 
be  the  cue  for  the  most  vital  action  of  his  life. 

"My  God !  Mf^Cfri !"  said  Willoughby  How 
ard,  "will  this  thing  never  stop?"  And  then  he, 
straightened  himself  and  turned  toward  the 
shadow  into  which  Carter  had  retired,  and  there 
was  the  glow  and  glory  of  a  large  idea  on  his 
face;  the  thought  of  a  line  of  men  never  lacking, 
when  once  aroused,  in  the  courage  to  do  and  die 
for  a  principle  or  a  human  need.  "There  is  one 
way,"  he  cried,  stretching  out  his  hands  impul-' 
sively  to  Carter,  and  not  knowing  to  whom  or  to 
what  manner  of  man  he  spoke— "there  is  one  wa^r 
to  make  them  pause  and  think !  If  two  of  us  white 
men  of  the  better  class  offer  our  lives  for  these 
poor  devils — die  in  their  defense! — the  mob  will 
halt;  the  crowd  will  think;  we  can  end  it!  Will 
you  do  it,  with  me?  Will  you  do  it?" 

Two  of  us  white  men  of  the  better  class !  Wil 
loughby  Howard  had  taken  him  for  a  white  man ! 

It  was  like  an  aecalade.  A  light  blazed  through 
the  haunted  caverns  of  his  soul;  he  swelled  with 
a  vast  exultation. 

Willoughby  Howard  had  taken  him  for  a  white 
manl  Then,  by  God,  he  would  be  one!  Since  he 
was  nothing  in  this  life,  he  could  at  least  die — and 
in  his  death  he  would  be  a  white  man !  Nay,  more : 
— he  would  die  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  one  of 

[15] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


that  family  whose  blood  he  shared.  He  would 
show  that  he,  too,  could  shed  that  blood  for  an 
idea  or  a  principle!  For  humanity!  At  the 
thought  he  could  feel  it  singing  in  his  veins.  Oh,( 
to  be  white,  white,  white!  The  dreams  and  the 
despairs  of  all  his  miserable  and  hampered  life 
passed  before  him  in  a  whirl,  and  now  the  cry  was 
answered! 

"Yes,"  he  said,  lifting  his  head,  and  rising  at 
that  instant  into  a  larger  thing  than  he  had  ever 
been,  "I  will  stand  by  you.  I  will  die  with  you." 
And  under  his  breath  he  added — "my  brother." 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  the  confused 
horror  of  that  night  things  happened  quickly. 
Even  as  Carter  spoke  the  wounded  negro  struggled 
to  his  feet  with  a  scarce  articulate  cry  of  alarm, 
for  around  the  corner  swept  a  mob,  and  the  dwarf 
with  matted  hair  was  in  the  lead.  He  had  come 
back  with  help  to  make  sure  of  his  job. 

With  the  negro  cowering  behind  them,  the  white 
man  and  the  mulatto  stepped  forth  to  face  the 
mob.  Their  attitude  made  their  intention  obvious. 

"Don't  be  a  damned  fool,  Willoughby  How 
ard,"  said  a  voice  from  the  crowd,  "or  you  may 
get  hurt  yourself."  And  with  the  words  there  was 
a  rush,  and  the  three  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
clamoring  madness,  the  mob  dragging  the  negro 
from  his  two  defenders. 

"Be  careful — don't  hurt  Willoughby  Howard !" 
said  the  same  voice  again.  Willoughby  turned, 
and,  recognizing  the  speaker  as  an  acquaintance, 

[16] 


Carter 

with  a  sudden  access  of  scorn  and  fury  and  dis 
gust,  struck  him  across  the  mouth.  The  next  mo 
ment  his  arms  were  pinioned,  and  he  was  lifted 
and  flung  away  from  the  negro  he  had  been  fighting 
to  protect  by  half  a  dozen  men. 

uYou  fools!  You  fools!"  he  raged,  struggling 
toward  the  center  of  the  crowd  again,  "you're 
killing  a  white  man  there.  An  innocent  white 

man Do  you  stop  at  nothing?  You're  killing 

a  white  man,  I  say!" 

" White  man?"  said  the  person  whom  he  had 
struck,  and  who  appeared  to  bear  him  little  re 
sentment  for  the  blow.  "Who's  a  white  man? 
Not  Jerry  Carter  here!  He  wasn't  any  white 
man.  I've  known  him  since  he  was  a  kid — he  was 
just  one  of  those  yaller  niggers." 

And  Carter  heard  it  as  he  died. 


//. — Old  Man  Murtrie 


I  I. —Old  Man  Murtrie 

OLD  MAN  MURTRIE  never  got  any  fresh  air  at 
all,  except  on  Sundays  on  his  way  to  and  from 
church.  He  lived,  slept,  cooked  and  ate  back  of 
the  prescription  case  in  his  little  dismal  drug  store 
in  one  of  the  most  depressing  quarters  of  Brook 
lyn.  The  store  was  dimly  lighted  by  gas  and  it 
was  always  damp  and  suggested  a  tomb.  Drifting 
feebly  about  in  the  pale  and  cold  and  faintly  green 
ish  radiance  reflected  from  bottles  and  show  cases, 
Old  Man  Murtrie  with  his  bloodless  face  and  dead 
white  hair  and  wisps  of  whisker  was  like  a  ghost 
that  has  not  managed  to  get  free  from  the  neigh 
borhood  of  a  sepulcher  where  its  body  lies  disin 
tegrating. 

People  said  that  Old  Man  Murtrie  was  nearly 
a  hundred  years  old,  but  this  was  not  true;  he  was 
only  getting  along  towards  ninety.  The  neighbor 
hood,  however,  seemed  a  little  impatient  with  him 
for  not  dying.  Some  persons  suggested  that  per 
haps  he  really  had  been  dead  for  a  long  time,  and 
did  not  know  it.  If  so,  they  thought,  it  might  be 
kind  to  tell  him  about  it. 

But  Old  Man  Murtrie  was  not  dead,  any  more 
than  he  was  alive.  And  Death  himself,  who  has 

[21] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


his  moments  of  impatience,  began  to  get  worried 
about  Old  Man  Murtrie.  It  was  time,  Death 
thought,  that  he  was  dead,  since  he  looked  so 
dead;  and  Death  had  said  so,  both  to  God  and  to 
the  Devil. 

"But  I  don't  ,want  to  garner  him,  naturally," 
Death  would  say,  "till  I  know  which  one  of  you  is, 
to  have  him.  He's  got  to  go  somewhere,  you 
know." 

God  and  Death  and  the  Devil  used  to  sit  on  the 
prescription  counter  in  a  row,  now  and  then,  and 
watch  Old  Man  Murtrie  as  he  slept  in  his  humble 
little  cot  back  there,  and  discuss  him. 

God  would  look  at  Old  Man  Murtrie's  pale 
little  Adam's  Apple  sticking  up  in  the  faint  gas 
light,  and  moving  as  he  snored — moving  feebly, 
for  even  his  snores  were  feeble — and  say,  with  a 
certain  distaste: 

"I  don't  want  him.    He  can't  get  into  Heaven." 

And  the  Devil  would  look  at  his  large,  weak,, 
characterless  nose; — a  nose  so  big  that  it  might 
have  suggested  force  on  any  one  but  Old  Man 
Murtrie — and  think  what  a  sham  it  was,  and  how 
effectually  all  its  contemptible  effort  to  be  a  real 
nose  was  exposed  in  Old  Man  Murtrie's  sleep. 
And  the  Devil  would  say: 

"I  don't  want  him.    He  can't  get  into  Hell." 

And  then  Death  would  say,  querulously:  "But 
he  can't  go  on  living  forever.  My  reputation  is 
suffering." 

"You  should  take  him,"  the  Devil  would  say  tq 
[22] 


Old  Man  Murtrie 


God.  "He  goes  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  he  is 
the  most  meek  and  pious  and  humble  and  prayer 
ful  person  in  all  Brooklyn,  and  perhaps  in  all  the 
world." 

"But  he  takes  drugs,"  God  would  say.  "You 
should  take  him,  because  he  is  a  drug  fiend." 

"He  takes  drugs,"  the  Devil  would  admit,  "but 
that  doesn't  make  him  a  fend.  You  have  to  do 
something  besides  take  drugs  to  be  a  fiend.  You 
will  permit  me  to  have  my  own  notions,  I  am  sure, 
on  what  constitutes  a  fiend." 

"You  ought  to  forgive  him  the  drugs  for  the 
sake  of  his  piety,"  the  Devil  would  say.  "And 
taking  drugs  is  his  only  vice.  He  doesn't  drink, 
or  smoke  tobacco,  or  use  profane  language,  or 
gamble.  And  he  doesn't  run  after  women." 

"You  ought  to  forgive  him  the  piety  for  the 
sake  of  the  drugs,"  God  would  tell  the  Devil. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  pair  as  you  two,"  Death 
would  say  querulously.  "Quibble,  quibble,  quibble ! 
— while  Old  Man  Murtrie  goes  on  and  on  living! 
He's  lived  so  long  that  he  is  affecting  death  rates 
and  insurance  tables,  all  by  himself,  and  you  know 
what  that  does  to  my  reputation." 


Death  would  stoop  over  and  run  his  finger 
caressingly  across  Old  Man  Murtrie's  throat,  as  jr 

the  Old  Man  slept    Whereupon  Old  Man  Mur- 
jtrie  would  roll  over  on  his  back  and  moan  in  his 
sleep  and  gurgle. 

"He  has  wanted  to  be  a  cheat  all  his  life,"  God 
would  say  to  the  Devil.    "He  has  always  had  the 

[23] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


impulse  to  give  short  weight  and  substitute  inferior 
drugs  in  his  prescriptions  and  overcharge  children 
who  were  sent  on  errands  to  his  store.  If  that 
isn't  sin  I  don't  know  what  sin  is.  You  should 
take  him." 

UI  admit  he  has  had  those  impulses,"  the  Devil 
would  say  to  God.  "But  he  has  never  yielded  to 
them.  In  my  opinion  having  those  impulses  and 
conquering  them  makes  him  a  great  deal  more  vir 
tuous  than  if  he'd  never  had  'em.  No  one  who  is 
as  virtuous  as  all  that  can  get  into  Hell." 

"I  never  saw  such  a  pair,"  Death  would  grumble. 
"Can't  you  agree  with  each  other  about  anything?" 

"He  didn't  abstain  from  his  vices  because  of 
any  courage,"  God  would  say.  "He  abstained 
simply  because  he  was  afraid.  It  wasn't  virtue  in 
him;  it  was  cowardice." 

"The  fear  of  the  Lord,"  murmured  the  Devil, 
dreamily,  "is  the  beginning  of  all  wisdom." 

"But  not  necessarily  the  end  of  it,"  God  would 
remark. 

"Argue,  argue,  argue,"  Death  would  say,  "and 
here's  Old  Man  Murtrie  still  alive  !  I'm  criticized 
about  the  way  I  do  my  work,  but  no  one  has  any 
idea  of  the  vacillation  and  inefficiency  I  have  to  con 
tend  with  !  I  never  saw  such  a  pair  as  you  two  to 
vacillate!" 

Sometimes  Old  Man  Murtrie  would  wake  up 
and  turn  over  on  his  couch  and  see  God  and  Death 
and  the  Devil  sitting  in  a  row  on  the  prescription 
counter,  looking  at  him.  But  he  always  persuaded 

[24] 


Old  Man  Murtrie 


himself  that  it  was  a  sort  of  dream,  induced  by 
the  "medicine"  he  took;  and  he  would  take  another 
dose  of  his  "medicine"  and  go  back  to  sleep  again. 
He  never  spoke  to  them  when  he  waked,  but  just 
lay  on  his  cot  and  stared  at  them ;  and  if  they  spoke 
to  him  he  would  pretend  to  himself  that  they  had 
not  spoken.  For  it  was  absurd  to  think  that  God 
and  Death  and  the  Devil  could  really  be  sitting 
there,  in  the  dim  greenish  gaslight,  among  all  the 
faintly  radiant  bottles,  talking  to  each  other  and 
looking  at  him;  and  so  Old  Man  Murtrie  would 
not  believe  it.  _____ — 

When  he  first  began  taking  his  "medicine"  Old 
Man  Murtrie  took  it  in  the  form  of  a  certain^ 
patent  preparation  which  was  full  of  opium.  He 
wanted  the  opium  more  and  more  after  he  started, 
but  he  pretended  to  himself  that  he  did  not  know 
there  was  much  opium  in  that  medicine.  Then,( 
when  a  federal  law  banished  that  kind  of  medicine 
from  the  markets,  he  took  to  making  it  for  his  own 
use.  He  would  not  take  opium  outright,  for  that 
would  be  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that  he  was 
an  opium  eater;  he  thought  eating  opium  was  a, 
sin,  and  he  thought  of  himself  as  sinless.  But  to 
make  the  medicine  with  the  exact  formula  that  its 
manufacturers  had  used,  before  they  had  been 
compelled  to  shut  up  shop,  and  use  it,  did  not  seem 
to  him  to  be  the  same  thing  at  all  as  being  an 
opium  eater.  And  yet,  after  the  law  was  passed, 
abolishing  the  medicine,  he  would  not  sell  to  any 
one  else  what  he  made  for  himself;  his  conscience. 

[25] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


would  not  allow  him  to  do  so.  Therefore,  he  must 
have  known  that  he  was  eating  opium  at  the  same 
time  he  tried  to  fool  himself  about  it. 

God  and  the  Devil  used  to  discuss  the  ethics  of 
this  attitude  towards  the  "medicine,"  and  Old  Man 
Murtrie  would  sometimes  pretend  to  be  asleep  and 
would  listen  to  them. 

"He  knows  it  is  opium  all  right,"  God  would 
say.  "He  is  just  lying  to  himself  about  it.  He 
ought  to  go  to  Hell.  No  one  that  lies  to  himself 
that  way  can  get  into  Heaven." 

"He's  pretending  for  the  sake  of  society  in  gen 
eral  and  for  the  sake  of  religion,1'  the  Devil  would 
say.  "If  he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  opium 
and  if  he  let  the  world  know  that  he  took  opium, 
it  might  bring  discredit  on  the  church  that  he  loves,' 
so  well.  He  might  become  a  stumbling  block  to 
others  who  are  seeking  salvation,  and  who  seek  it 
through  the  church.  He  is  willing  to  sacrifice 
himself  so  as  not  to  hamper  others  in  their  re 
ligious  life.  For  my  part,  I  think  it  is  highly  hon 
orable  of  him,  and  highly  virtuous.  No  person  as 
moral  as  that  in  his  instincts  can  get  into  Hell." 

"Talk,  talk,  talk!"  Death  would  say.  "The 
trouble  with  you  two  is  that  neither  one  of  you 
wants  Old  Man  Murtrie  around  where  you  will 
have  to  look  at  him  through  all  eternity,  and  each 
of  you  is  trying  to  put  it  on  moral  grounds." 

And  Old  Man  Murtrie  kept  on  living  and  pray 
ing  and  being  pious  and  wanting  to  be  bad  and 
not  daring  to  and  taking  his  medicine  and  being 

[26]  ~~—± 


Old  Man  Murtrie 


generally  as  ineffectual  in  the  world  either  for  good 
or  evil  as  a  butterfly  in  a  hurricane. 

But  things  took  a  turn.  There  was  a  faded- 
looking  blonde  woman  with  stringy  hair  by  the 
name  of  Mable  who  assisted  Old  Man  Murtrie  in 
the  store,  keeping  his  books  and  waiting  on  cus 
tomers,  and  so  forth.  She  was  unmarried,  and 
one  day  she  announced  to  him  that  she  was  going, 
to  have  a  child. 

Old  Man  Murtrie  had  often  looked  at  her  with 
a  recollection,  a  dim  and  faint  remembrance,  of 
the  lusts  of  his  youth  and  of  his  middle  age.  In 
his  youth  and  middle  age  he  had  lusted  after  many 
women,  but  he  had  never  let  any  of  them  know  it, 
because  he  was  afraid,  and  he  had  called  his  fears, 
virtue,  and  had  really  believed  that  he  was  vir 
tuous. 

"Whom  do  you  suspect?"  asked  Old  Man  Mur 
trie,  leering  at  Mable  like  a  wraith  blown  down 
the  ages  from  the  dead  adulteries  of  ruined, 
Babylon. 

"Who?"  cried  Mable,  an  unlessoned  person, 
but  with  a  cruel,  instinctive  humor.  "Who  but 
you!" 

She  had  expected  Old  Man  Murtrie  to  be  out 
raged  at  her  ridiculous  joke,  and,  because  she  was 
unhappy  herself,  had  anticipated  enjoying  his  as 
tounded  protests.  But  it  was  she  who  was  as 
tounded.  Old  Man  Murtrie's  face  was  blank  and 
his  eyes  were  big  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  chuck- 
led  ;  a  queer  little  cackling  chuckle.  And  when  she 

[27] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


went  out  he  opened  the  door  for  her  and  cocked 
his  head  and  cackled  again. 

It  gave  Mable  an  idea.  She  reflected  that  he 
took  so  much  opium  that  he  might  possibly  be  led 
to  believe  the  incredible,  and  she  might  get  some 
money  out  of  him.  So  the  next  evening  she  brought 
her  mother  and  her  brother  to  the  store  and  ac 
cused  him. 

Old  Man  Murtrie  chuckled  and  .  .  .  and  ad 
mitted  it!  Whether  he  believed  that  it  could  be 
true  or  not,  Mable  and  her  people  were  unable 
to  determine.  But  they  made  the  tactical  error 
of  giving  him  his  choice  between  marriage  and 
money,  and  he  chose  matrimony. 

And  then  Old  Man  Murtrie  was  suddenly  seized 
with  a  mania  for  confession.  God  and  Death  and 
the  Devil  used  to  listen  to  him  nights,  and  they 
wondered  over  him,  and  began  to  change  their 
minds  about  him,  a  little.  He  confessed  to  the 
officials  of  his  church.  He  confessed  to  all  the  peo 
ple  whom  he  knew.  He  insisted  on  making  a  con 
fession,  a  public  confession,  in  the  church  itself  and 
asking  for  the  prayers  of  the  preacher  and  con 
gregation  for  his  sin,  and  telling  them  that  he  was 
going  to  atone  by  matrimony,  and  asking  for  a 
blessing  on  the  wedding. 

And  one  night,  full  of  opium,  while  he  was  bab 
bling  about  it  in  his  sleep,  God  and  Death  and  the 
Devil  sat  on  the  prescription  counter  again  and 
looked  at  him  and  listened  to  his  ravings  and 
speculated. 

[28] 


Old  Man  Murtrie 


"I'm  going  to  have  him,"  said  the  Devil.  "Any 
one  who  displays  such  conspicuous  bad  taste  that 
he  goes  around  confessing  that  he  has  ruined  a 
woman  ought  to  go  to  Hell." 

uYou  don't  want  him  for  that  reason,"  said 
God.  "And  you  know  you  don't.  You  want  him 
because  you  admire  the  idea  of  adultery,  and  think 
that  now  he  is  worthy  of  a  place  in  Hell.  You  are 
rather  entertained  by  Old  Man  Murtrie,  and  want 
him  around  now." 

"Well,"  said  the  Devil,  "suppose  I  admit  that 
is  true !  Have  you  any  counter  claim?" 

"Yes,"  said  God.  "I  am  going  to  take  Old  Man 
Murtrie  into  Heaven.  He  knows  he  is  not  the 
father  of  the  child  that  is  going  to  be  born,  but 
he  has  deliberately  assumed  the  responsibility  lest 
it  be  born  fatherless,  and  I  think  that  is  a  noble 


act." 


"Rubbish!"  said  the  Devil.  "That  isn't  the 
reason  you  want  him.  You  want  him  because  of 
the  paternal  instinct  he  displays.  It  flatters  you  I" 

"Well,"  said  God,  "why  not?  The  paternal  in 
stinct  is  another  name  for  the  great  creative  force 
of  the  universe.  I  have  been  known  by  many 
names  in  many  countries  .  .  .  they  called  me 
Osiris,  the  All-Father,  in  Egypt,  and  they  called 
me  Jehovah  in  Palestine,  and  they  called  me  Zeus 
and  Brahm  .  .  .  but  always  they  recognized  me 
as  the  Father.  And  this  instinct  for  fatherliness 
appeals  to  me.  Old  Man  Murtrie  shall  come  to 
Heaven." 

[29] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Such  a  pair  as  you  two,"  said  Death,  gloomily, 
"I  never  did  see !  Discuss  and  discuss,  but  never1} 
get  anywhere  !  And  all  the  time  Old  Man  Murtrie 
goes  on  living." 

And  then  Death  added: 

"Why  not  settle  this  matter  once  and  for  all, 
right  now?  Why  not  wake  Old  Man  Murtrie  up 
and  let  him  decide?" 

"Decide?"  asked  the  Devil. 

"Yes, — whether  he  wants  to  go  to  Hell  or  to 
Heaven." 

"I  imagine,"  said  God,  "that  if  we  do  that  there 
can  be  no  question  as  to  which  place  he  would 
rather  go  to." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Devil.  "Some 
people  come  to  Hell  quite  willingly.  IVe  been  to 
Heaven  myself,  you  know,  and  I  can  quite  under 
stand  why.  Are  you  afraid  to  have  Old  Man 
Murtrie  make  the  choice?" 

"Wake  him  up,  Death,  wake  him  up,"  said  God. 
"It's  unusual  to  allow  people  to  know  that  they 
are  making  their  own  decision — though  all  of 
them,  in  a  sense,  do  make  it — but  wake  him  up,. 
Death,  and  we'll  see." 

So  Death  prodded  Old  Man  Murtrie  in  the  ribs, 
and  they  asked  him.  For  a  long  time  he  thought 
it  was  only  opium,  but  when  he  finally  understood 
that  it  was  really  God  and  Death  and  the  Devil 
who  were  there,  and  that  it  was  really  they  who 
had  often  been  there  before,  he  was  very  much 

[30] 


Old  Man  Murtrie 


frightened.  He  was  so  frightened  he  couldn't 
choose. 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you,  I'll  leave  it  to  you,"  said 
Old  Man  Murtrie.  "Who  am  I  that  I  should  set 
myself  up  to  decide  ?" 

"Well,"  said  God,  getting  a  little  angry,  per 
haps,  "if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  Heaven,  Murtrie, 
you  don't  have  to.  But  you've  been  praying  to  go 
to  Heaven,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  for  seventy 
or  eighty  years,  and  I  naturally  thought  you  were 
in  earnest.  But  I'm  through  with  you  .  .  .  you 
can  go  to  Hell." 

"Oh!    Oh!    Oh!"  moaned  Old  Man  Murtrie. 

"No,"  said  the  Devil,  "I've  changed  my  mind, 
too.  My  distaste  for  Murtrie  has  returned  to  me. 
I  don't  want  him  around.  I  won't  have  him  in 
Hell." 

"See  here,  now!"  cried  Death.  "You  two  are 
starting  it  all  over  again.  I  won't  have  it,  so  I 
won't !  You  aren't  fair  to  Murtrie,  and  you  aren't 
fair  to  me !  This  matter  has  got  to  be  settled,  and 
settled  to-night!" 

"Well,  then,"  said  God,  "settle  it.  I've  ceased 
to  care  one  way  or  another." 

"I  will  not,"  said  Death,  "I  know  my  job,  and 
I  stick  to  my  job.  One  of  you  two  has  got  to 
settle  it." 

"Toss  a  coin,"  suggested  the  Devil,  indifferently. 

Death  looked  around  for  one. 

"There's  a  qu-qu-quarter  in  m-m-my  t-t-trousers' 
p-p-pocket,"  stammered  Old  Man  Murtrie,  and 

[31] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


then  stuck  his  head  under  the  bedclothes  and  shiv 
ered  as  if  he  had  the  ague. 

Death  picked  up  Murtrie's  poor  little  weazened 
trousers  from  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  cot, 
where  they  lay  sprawled  untidily,  and  shook  them 
till  the  quarter  dropped  out. 

He  picked  it  up. 

"Heads,  he  goes  to  Heaven.  Tails,  he  goes  to 
Hell,"  said  Death,  and  tossed  the  coin  to  the  ceil 
ing.  Murtrie  heard  it  hit  the  ceiling,  and  started. 
He  heard  it  hit  the  floor,  and  bounce,  and  jingle 
and  spin  and  roll  and  come  to  rest.  And  he  thrust 
his  head  deeper  under  the  covers  and  lay  there 
quaking.  He  did  not  dare  look. 

"Look  at  it,  Murtrie,"  said  Death. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  groaned  Murtrie,  shaking 
the  cot. 

But  Death  reached  over  and  caught  him  by  the 
neck  and  turned  his  face  so  that  he  could  not  help 
seeing.  And  Old  Man  Murtrie  looked  and  saw 
that  the  coin  had  fallen  with  the  side  up  that  sent 
him  to 

But,  really,  why  should  I  tell  you?  Go  and 
worry  about  your  own  soul,  and  let  Old  Man  Mur- 
trie's  alone. 


77. — Never  Say  Die 


///. — Never  Say  Die 

THERE  seemed  nothing  left  but  suicide. 

But  how  ?  In  what  manner  ?  By  what  method  ? 
Mr.  Gooley  lay  on  his  bed  and  thought — or  tried 
to  think.  The  pain  in  his  head,  which  had  been 
there  ever  since  the  day  after  he  had  last  eaten,; 
prevented  easy  and  coherent  thought. 

It  had  been  three  days  ago  that  the  pain  left  his 
stomach  and  went  into  his  head.  Hunger  had 
become  a  cerebral  thing,  he  told  himself.  His  body 
had  felt  hunger  so  long  that  it  refused  to  feel 
it  any  longer;  it  had  shifted  the  burden  to  his 
brain. 

"It  has  passed  the  buck  to  my  mind,  my  stom 
ach  has,"  murmured  Mr.  Gooley  feebly.  And  the 
mind,  less  by  the  process  of  coherent  and  connected 
thought  than  by  a  sudden  impulsive  pounce,  had 
grasped  the  idea  of  suicide. 

"Not  with  a  knife,"  considered  Mr.  Gooley. 
He  had  no  knife.  He  had  no  money  to  buy  a 
knife.  He  had  no  strength  to  go  down  the  three 
flights  of  stairs  in  the  cheap  Brooklyn  lodging 
house  where  he  lay,  and  borrow  a  knife  from  the 
landlady  who  came  and  went  vaguely  in  the  nether 
regions,  dim  and  damp  and  dismal. 

[351 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Not  with  a  knife,"  repeated  Mr.  Gooley.  And 
a  large  cockroach,  which  had  been  crawling  along 
the  footpiece  of  the  old-fashioned  wooden  bed, 
stopped  crawling  at  the  words  as  if  it  understood, 
and  turned  about  and  looked  at  him. 

Mr.  Gooley  wondered  painfully,  for  it  was  a 
pain  even  to  wonder  about  anything,  why  this 
cockroach  should  remind  him  of  somebody  who 
was  somehow  connected  with  a  knife,  and  not  un 
pleasantly  connected  with  a  knife.  The  cockroach 
stood  up  on  the  hindmost  pair  of  his  six  legs,  and 
seemed  to  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  motion 
with  his  front  legs  at  Mr.  Gooley. 

"I  get  you,"  said  Mr.  Gooley,  conscious  that  his 
mind  was  wandering  from  the  point,  and  willing 
to  let  it  wander.  "I  know  who  you  are!  You  were 
Old  Man  Archibald  Hammil,  the  hardware  mer 
chant  back  in  Mapletown,  where  I  was  a  kid,  be 
fore  you  dried  up  and  turned  into  a  cockroach." 

And  Mr.  Gooley  wept  a  few  weak  tears.  For 
old  Archibald  Hammil,  the  village  hardware  mer 
chant,  had  sold  him  the  first  knife  he  had  ever 
owned.  His  father  had  taken  him  into  Hammirs 
store  to  buy  it  on  his  seventh  birthday,  for  a  pres 
ent,  and  it  had  had  a  buckhorn  handle  and  two 
blades.  Again  he  saw  Old  Man  Hammil  in  his 
dingy  brown  clothes,  looking  at  him,  with  his  head 
on  one  side,  as  this  cockroach  was  doing.  Again 
he  felt  his  father  pat  him  on  the  head,  and  heard 
him  say  always  to  remember  to  whittle  away  from 

[36] 


Never  Say  Die 


himself,  never  toward  himself.  And  he  saw  him 
self,  shy  and  flushed  and  eager,  a  freckle-faced 
boy  as  good  and  as  bad  as  most  boys,  looking  up 
at  his  father  and  wriggling  and  wanting  to  thank 
him,  and  not  knowing  how.  That  was  nearly  forty 
years  ago — and  here  he  was,  a  failure  and  starving 
and 

Why  had  he  wanted  a  knife?  Yes,  he  remem 
bered  now !  To  kill  himself  with. 

"It's  none  of  your  damned  business,  Old  Man 
Hammil,"  he  said  to  the  cockroach,  which  was 
crawling  back  and  forth  on  the  footboard,  and 
pausing  every  now  and  then  to  look  at  him  with 
disapproval. 

Old  Man  Hammil  had  had  ropes  in  his  store, 
too,  and  guns  and  pistols,  he  remembered.  He 
hadn't  thought  of  Old  Man  HammiPs  store  in 
many  years;  but  now  he  saw  it,  and  the  village 
street  outside  it,  and  the  place  where  the  stores 
left  off  on  the  street  and  the  residences  began,  and 
berry  bushes,  and  orchards,  and  clover  in  the  grass 
— the  random  bloom,  the  little  creek  that  bounded 
the  town,  and  beyond  the  creek  the  open  country 
with  its  waving  fields  of  oats  and  rye  and  corn. 
His  head  hurt  him  worse.  He  would  go  right 
back  into  Old  Man  Hammirs  store  and  get  a  rope 
or  a  gun  and  end  that  pain. 

But  that  was  foolish,  too.  There  wasn't  any 
store.  There  was  only  Old  Man  Hammil  here, 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  cockroach,  in  his  rusty 
brown  suit,  looking  at  him  from  the  footboard  of 

[371 


Carter  and  Other  People 

the  bed  and  telling  him  in  pantomime  not  to  kill 
himself. 

"I  will  too!"  cried  Mr.  Gooley  to  Old  Man 
Hammil.  And  he  repeated,  "It's  none  of  your 
damned  business!" 

But  how?  Not  with  a  knife.  He  had  none. 
Not  with  a  gun.  He  had  none.  Not  with  a  rope. 
He  had  none.  He  thought  of  his  suspenders.  But 
they  would  never  hold  him. 

"Too  weak,  even  for  me/'  muttered  Mr.  Goo- 
ley.  "I  have  shrunk  so  I  don't  weigh  much  more 
than  Old  Man  Hammil  there,  but  even  at  that 
those  suspenders  would  never  do  the  business." 

How  did  people  kill  themselves?  He  must 
squeeze  his  head  till  the  pain  let  up  a  little,  so  he 
could  think.  Poison !  That  was  it — yes,  poison ! 
And  then  he  cackled  out  a  small,  dry,  throaty 
laugh,  his  Adam's  apple  fluttering  in  his  weazened 
throat  under  his  sandy  beard.  Poison !  He  hadn't 
any  poison.  He  hadn't  any  money  with  which  to 
buy  poison. 

And  then  began  a  long,  broken  and  miserable 
debate  within  himself.  If  he  had  money  enough 
with  which  to  buy  poison,  would  he  go  and  buy 
poison?  Or  go  and  buy  a  bowl  of  soup?  It  was 
some  moments  before  Mr.  Gooley  decided. 

"I'd  be  game,"  he  said.  "I'd  buy  the  soup.  I'd 
give  myself  that  one  more  chance.  I  must  remem 
ber  while  I'm  killing  myself,  that  I'm  not  killing 
myself  because  I  want  to.  I'm  just  doing  it  be- 

[38] 


Never  Say  Die 

ise  IVe  got  to.  I'm  not  romantic.  I'm  just 
all  in.  It's  the  end;  that's  all." 

Old  Man  Hammil,  on  the  footboard  of  the  bed, 
permitted  himself  a  series  of  gestures  which  Mr. 
Gooley  construed  as  applause  of  this  resolution. 
They  angered  Mr.  Gooley,  those  gestures. 

"You  shut  up !"  he  told  the  cockroach,  although 
that  insect  had  not  spoken,  but  only  made  signs. 
"This  is  none  of  your  damned  business,  Old  Man 
Hammil!" 

Old  Man  Hammil,  he  remembered,  had  always 
been  a  meddlesome  old  party — one  of  the  village 
gossips,  in  fact.  And  that  set  him  to  thinking 
of  Mapletown  again. 

The  mill  pond  near  the  schoolhouse  would  soon 
be  freezing  over,  and  the  boys  would  be  skating  on 
it — it  was  getting  into  December.  And  they  would 
be  going  into  Old  Man  Harm-nil's  store  for  skates 
and  straps  and  heel  plates  and  files.  And  he  re 
membered  his  first  pair  of  skates,  and  how  his 
father  had  taught  him  the  proper  way  to  keep 
them  sharp  with  a  file.  He  and  the  old  dad  had 
always  been  pretty  good  pals,  and 

Good  God !  Why  should  he  be  coming  back  to 
that?  And  to  Old  Man  Hammil's  store?  It  was 
that  confounded  cockroach  there,  reminding  him 
of  Old  Man  Hammil,  that  had  done  it.  He 
wanted  to  die  decently  and  quietly,  and  as  quickly 
as  might  be,  without  thinking  of  all  these  things. 
He  didn't  want  to  lie  there  and  die  of  starvation, 
he  wanted  to  kill  himself  and  be  done  with  it  with- 

[391 


Carter  and  Oilier  People 


out  further  misery — and  it  was  a  part  of  the  ridicu 
lous  futility  of  his  life,  his  baffled  and  broken  and 
insignificant  life,  that  he  couldn't  even  kill  him 
self  competently — that  he  lay  there  suffering  and 
ineffectual  and  full  of  self-pity,  a  prey  to  memo 
ries  and  harassing  visions  of  the  past,  all  mingled 
with  youth  and  innocence  and  love,  without  the 
means  of  a  quick  escape.  It  was  that  damned 
cockroach,  looking  like  Old  Man  Hammil,  the  vil 
lage  hardware  merchant,  that  had  brought  back 
the  village  and  his  youth  to  him,  and  all  those 
intolerable  recollections. 

He  took  his  dirty  pillow  and  feebly  menaced 
the  cockroach.  Feeble  as  the  gesture  was,  the 
insect  took  alarm.  It  disappeared  from  the  foot 
board  of  the  bed.  A  minute  later,  however,  he 
saw  it  climbing  the  wall.  It  reached  the  ceiling, 
and  crawled  to  the  center  of  the  room.  Mr.  Goo- 
ley  watched  it.  He  felt  as  if  he,  too,  could  crawl 
along  the  ceiling.  He  had  the  crazy  notion  of 
trying.  After  all,  he  told  himself  light-headedly, 
Old  Cockroach  Hammil  up  there  on  the  ceiling 
had  been  friendly — the  only  friendly  thing,  human 
or  otherwise,  that  had  made  overtures  to  him  in 
many,  many  months.  And  he  had  scared  Cock 
roach  Hammil  away!  He  shed  some  more  maud 
lin  tears. 

What  was  the  thing  doing  now?  He  watched 
as  the  insect  climbed  on  to  the  gas  pipe  that  came 
down  from  the  ceiling.  It  descended  the  rod  and 
perched  itself  on  the  gas  jet.  From  this  point  of 

[40] 


Never  Say  Die 


vantage  it  began  once  more  to  regard  Mr.  Gooley 
with  a  singular  intentness. 

Ah!  Gas!  That  was  it!  What  a  fool  he 
had  been  not  to  think  of  it  sooner !  That  was  the 
way  people  killed  themselves !  Gas ! 

Mr.  Gooley  got  himself  weakly  out  of  bed.  He 
would  get  the  thing  over  as  quickly  as  possible 
now.  It  would  be  damnably  unpleasant  before  he 
lost  consciousness,  no  doubt,  and  painful.  But 
likely  not  more  unpleasant  and  painful  than  his 
present  state.  And  he  simply  could  not  bear  any 
more  of  those  recollections,  any  more  visions. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  cockroach,  which 
was  watching  him  from  the  gas  jet,  and  went  me 
thodically  to  work.  The  window  rattled;  between 
the  upper  and  lower  sashes  there  was  a  crevice  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  wide.  He  plugged  it  with 
paper.  There  was  a  break  in  the  wall  of  his  closet ; 
the  plaster  had  fallen  away,  and  a  chink  allowed 
the  cockroaches  from  his  room  easy  access  to  the 
closet  of  the  adjoining  room.  He  plugged  that 
also,  and  was  about  to  turn  his  attention  to  the 
keyhole,  when  there  came  a  knock  on  his  door. 

Mr.  Gooley's  first  thought  was:  "What  can 
any  one  want  with  a  dead  man?"  For  he  looked 
upon  himself  as  already  dead.  There  came  a. 
second  knock,  more  peremptory  than  the  first,  and 
he  said  mechanically,  "Come  in!"  It  would  have 
to  be  postponed  a  few  minutes,  that  was  all. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  walked  his  landlady. 
She  was  a  tall  and  bulky  and  worried-looking 

[41] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


woman,  who  wore  a  faded  blond  wig  that  was 
always  askew,  and  Mr.  Gooley  was  afraid  of  her. 
Her  wig  was  more  askew  than  usual  when  she  en 
tered,  and  he  gathered  from  this  that  she  was  an 
gry  about  something — why  the  devil  must  she  in 
trude  her  trivial  mundane  anger  upon  himself,  a 
doomed  man?  It  was  not  seemly. 

"Mr.  Gooley,"  she  began  severely,  without  pre 
amble,  "I  have  always  looked  on  you  as  a  gentle 


man." 


"Yes?"  he  murmured  dully. 

"But  you  ain't,"  she  continued.  "You  ain't  no 
better  than  a  cheat." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  patiently.  He  sup 
posed  that  she  was  right  about  it.  He  owed  her 
three  weeks'  room  rent,  and  he  was  going  to  die 
and  beat  her  out  of  it.  But  he  couldn't  help  it. 

"It  ain't  the  room  rent,"  she  went  on,  as  if 
vaguely  cognizant  of  the  general  trend  of  his 
thoughts.  "It  ain't  the  room  rent  alone.  You 
either  pay  me  that  or  you  don't  pay  me  that,  and 
if  you  don't,  out  you  go.  But  while  you  are  here, 
you  must  conduct  yourself  as  a  gentleman  should !" 

"Well,"  murmured  Mr.  Gooley,  "haven't  I?" 

And  the  cockroach,  perched  on  the  gas  jet  above 
the  landlady's  head,  and  apparently  listening  to 
this  conversation,  moved  several  of  his  legs,  as  if 
in  surprise. 

"You  have  not!"  said  the  landlady,  straighten 
ing  her  wig. 

"What  have  I  done,  Mrs.  Hinkley  ?"  asked  Mr. 
[42] 


Never  Say  Die 


Gooley  humbly.      And  Old   Cockroach  Hammil 
from  his  perch  also  made  signs  of  inquiry. 

"What  have  you  done !  What  have  you  done !" 
cried  Mrs.  Hinkley.  "As  if  the  man  didn't  know 
what  he  had  done !  YouVe  been  stealin*  my  gas, 
that's  what  you  have  been  doin' — stealin',  I  say, 
and  there's  no  other  word  for  it !" 

Mr.  Gooley  started  guiltily.  He  had  not  been 
stealing  her  gas,  but  it  came  over  him  with  a  shock 
for  the  first  time  that  that  was  what  he  had,  in 
effect,  been  planning  to  do.  The  cockroach,  as  if 
it  also  felt  convicted  of  sin,  gave  the  gas  jet  a 
glance  of  horror  and  moved  up  the  rod  to  the 
ceiling,  where  it  continued  to  listen. 

"StealinM"  repeated  Mrs.  Hinkley.  "That's 
what  it  is,  nothin'  else  but  stealin'.  You  don't  ever 
stop  to  think  when  you  use  one  of  them  gas  plates 
to  cook  in  your  room,  Mr.  Gooley — which  it  is 
expressly  forbid  and  agreed  on  that  no  cooking 
shall  be  done  in  these  rooms  when  they're  rented 
to  you — that  it's  my  gas  you're  using,  and  that  I 
have  to  pay  for  it,  and  that  it's  just  as  much  steal- 
in'  as  if  you  was  to  put  your  hand  into  my  pocket- 
book  and  take  my  money!" 

"Cooking?    Gas  plate?"  muttered  Mr.  Gooley. 

"Don't  say  you  ain't  got  one  !"  cried  Mrs.  Hink 
ley.  "You  all  got  'em !  Every  last  one  of  you ! 
Don't  you  try  to  come  none  of  your  sweet  inno 
cence  dodges  over  me.  I  know  you,  and  the  whole 
tribe  of  you  !  I  ain't  kept  lodgers  for  thirty  years 
without  knowing  the  kind  of  people  they  be !  'Gas 

[43] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


plate  !  Gas  plate  !'  says  you,  as  innocent  as  if  you 
didn't  know  what  a  gas  plate  was !  You  got  it  hid 
here  somewheres,  and  I  ain't  going  to  stir  from 
this  room  until  I  get  my  hands  on  it  and  squash  it 
under  my  feet !  Come  across  with  it,  Mr.  Gooley, 
come  across  with  it!" 

uBut  I  haven't  one,"  said  Mr.  Gooley,  very  ill 
and  very  weary.  "You  can  look,  if  you  want  to." 

And  he  lay  back  upon  the  bed.  The  cockroach 
slyly  withdrew  himself  from  the  ceiling,  came  down 
the  wall,  and  crawled  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  again. 
If  Mrs.  Hinkley  noticed  him,  she  said  nothing; 
perhaps  it  was  not  a  part  of  her  professional  policy 
to  draw  attention  to  cockroaches  on  the  premises. 
She  stood  and  regarded  Mr.  Gooley  for  some  mo 
ments,  while  he  turned  his  head  away  from  her  in 
apathy.  Her  first  anger  seemed  to  have  spent  it 
self.  But  finally,  with  a  new  resolution,  she  said: 

"And  look  I  will !  You  got  one,  or  else  that 
blondined  party  in  the  next  room  has  lied." 

She  went  into  the  closet  and  he  heard  her  open 
ing  his  trunk.  She  pulled  it  into  the  bedroom  and 
examined  the  interior.  It  didn't  take  long.  She 
dived  under  the  bed  and  drew  out  his  battered 
suitcase,  so  dilapidated  that  he  had  not  been  able 
to  get  a  quarter  for  it  at  the  pawnshop,  but  no 
more  dilapidated  than  his  trunk. 

She  seemed  struck,  for  the  first  time  since  her 
entrance,  with  the  utter  bareness  of  the  room. 
Outside  of  the  bed,  one  chair,  the  bureau,  and  Mr., 

[44] 


Never  Say  Die 


Gooley's  broken  shoes  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  there 
was  absolutely  nothing  in  it. 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  beside  the  bed.  uMr. 
Gooley,"  she  said,  "you  ain't  got  any  gas  plate." 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Gooley,"  she  said,  "you  got  nothing  at 
all!" 

"No,"  he  said,  "nothing." 

"You  had  a  passel  of  books  and  an  overcoat 
five  or  six  weeks  ago,"  she  said,  "when  you  come 
here.  It  was  seein'  them  books,  and  knowing 
what  you  was  four  or  five  years  ago,  when  you 
lived  here  once  before,  that  made  me  sure  you  was 
a  gentleman." 

Mr.  Gooley  made  no  reply.  The  cockroach  on 
the  foot  of  the  bed  also  seemed  to  be  listening  to 
see  if  Mrs.  Hinkley  had  anything  more  to  say, 
and  suspending  judgment. 

"Mr.  Gooley,"  said  the  landlady,  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  You  was  lied  on  by  one  that  has  a  gas 
plate  herself,  and  when  I  taxed  her  with  it,  and 
took  it  away  from  her,  and  got  rid  of  her,  she 
had  the  impudence  to  say  she  thought  it  was  al 
lowed,  and  that  everybody  done  it,  and  named  you 
as  one  that  did." 

Mrs.  Hinkley  paused,  but  neither  Mr.  Gooley 
nor  the  cockroach  had  anything  to  contribute  to 
the  conversation. 

"Gas,"  continued  Mrs.  Hinkley,  "is  gas.  And 
gas  costs  money.  I  hadn't  orter  jumped  on  you 
the  way  I  did,  Mr.  Gooley,  but  gas  plates  has  got 

[451 


Carter  and  Other  People 


to  be  what  you  might  call  corns  on  my  brain,  Mr. 
Gooley.  They're  my  sensitive  spot,  Mr.  Gooley. 
If  I  was  to  tell  you  the  half  of  what  I  have  had 
to  suffer  from  gas  plates  during  the  last  thirty 
years,  Mr.  Gooley,  you  wouldn't  believe  it! 
There's  them  that  will  cheat  you  one  way  and 
there's  them  that  will  cheat  you  another,  but  the 
best  of  them  will  cheat  you  with  gas  plates,  Mr. 
Gooley.  With  the  exception  of  yourself,  Mr.  Goo 
ley,  I  ain't  had  a  lodger  in  thirty  years  that 
wouldn't  rob  me  on  the  gas.  Some  don't  think  it's 
stealin',  Mr.  Gooley,  when  they  steal  gas.  And 
some  of  'em  don't  care  if  it  is.  But  there  ain't 
none  of  'em  ever  thinks  what  a  landlady  goes 
through  with,  year  in  and  year  out.'* 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  overcome 
with  self-pity,  she  began  to  sniffle. 

"And  my  rent's  been  raised  on  me  again,  Mr. 
Gooley!  And  I'm  a  month  behind!  And  if  I 
ain't  come  across  with  the  two  months,  the  old 
month  and  the  new,  by  day  after  to-morrow,  out 
I  goes;  and  it  means  the  poorhouse  as  fur  as  I 
can  see,  because  I  don't  know  anything  else  but 
keeping  lodgers,  and  I  got  no  place  to  go !" 

She  gathered  her  apron  up  and  wiped  her  eyes 
and  nose  with  it.  The  cockroach  on  the  footboard 
wiped  his  front  set  of  feet  across  his  face  sympa 
thetically. 

"I  got  it  all  ready  but  fifteen  dollars,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Hinkley,  "and  then  in  comes  the  gas 
bill  this  morning  with  arrears  onto  it.  It  is  them 

[46] 


Never  Say  Die 


arrears,  Mr.  Gooley,  that  always  knocks  me  out! 
If  it  wasn't  for  them  arrears,  I  could  get  along. 
And  now  I  got  to  pay  out  part  of  the  rent  money 
onto  the  gas  bill,  with  them  arrears  on  it,  or  the 
gas  will  be  shut  off  this  afternoon." 

The  pain  in  Mr.  Gooley's  head  was  getting 
worse.  He  wished  she  would  go.  He  hated  hear 
ing  her  troubles.  But  she  continued : 

"It's  the  way  them  arrears  come  onto  the  bill, 
Mr.  Gooley,  that  has  got  me  sore.  About  a  week 
before  you  come  here  again  to  live,  Mr.  Gooley, 
there  was  a  fellow  stole  fifteen  dollars'  worth  of 
my  gas  all  at  once.  He  went  and  killed  himself, 
Mr.  Gooley,  and  he  used  my  gas  to  do  it  with.  It 
leaked  out  of  two  jets  for  forty-eight  hours  up  on 
the  top  floor,  before  the  door  was  busted  in  and 
the  body  was  found,  and  it  came  to  fifteen  dollars, 
and  all  on  account  of  that  man's  cussedness,  Mr. 
Gooley,  I  will  likely  get  turned  out  into  the  street, 
and  me  sixty  years  old  and  no  place  to  turn." 

Mr.  Gooley  sat  up  in  bed  feebly  and  looked  at 
her.  She  was  in  real  trouble — in  about  as  much 
trouble  as  he  was.  The  cockroach  walked  medi 
tatively  up  and  down  the  footboard,  as  if  thinking 
it  over  very  seriously. 

Mrs.  Hinkley  finally  rose. 

"Mr.  Gooley,"  she  said,  regarding  him  sharply, 
"you  look  kind  o'  done  up !" 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Mr.  Gooley. 

She  lingered  in  the  room  for  a  few  seconds  more, 
irresolutely,  and  then  departed. 

[471 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Mr.  Gooley  thought.  Gas  was  barred  to  him 
now.  He  couldn't  bring  himself  to  do  it  with  gas. 
There  was  still  a  chance  that  the  old  woman  might 
get  hold  of  the  gas  money  and  the  rent  money,  too, 
and  go  on  for  a  few  years,  but  if  he  selfishly  stole 
twelve  or  fifteen  dollars'  worth  of  gas  from  her 
this  afternoon  it  might  be  just  the  thing  that  would 
plunge  her  into  immediate  destitution.  At  any  rate, 
it  was,  as  she  had  said,  like  stealing  money  from 
her  pocketbook.  He  thought  of  what  her  life  as 
a  rooming-house  keeper  must  have  been,  and  pitied 
her.  He  had  known  many  rooming  houses.  The 
down-and-outers  know  how  to  gauge  the  reality 
and  poignancy  of  the  troubles  of  the  down-and- 
out.  No,  he  simply  could  not  do  it  with  gas. 

He  must  think  of  some  other  method.  He  was 
on  the  fourth  floor.  He  might  throw  himself  out 
of  the  window  onto  the  brick  walk  at  the  back 
of  the  building,  and  die.  He  shuddered  as  he 
thought  of  it.  To  jump  from  a  twentieth  story, 
or  from  the  top  of  the  Woolworth  Tower,  to  a  cer 
tain  death  is  one  thing.  To  contemplate  a  fall  of 
three  or  four  stories  that  may  maim  you  without 
killing  you,  is  another. 

Nevertheless,  he  would  do  it.  He  pulled  the 
paper  out  of  the  crevice  between  the  window 
sashes,  opened  the  window  and  looked  down.  He 
saw  the  back  stoop  and  there  was  a  dirty  mop; 
beside  it;  there  was  an  ash  can,  and  there  were 
two  garbage  cans  there.  And  there  was  a  starved 
cat  that  sat  and  looked  up  at  him.  He  had  a 

[48] 


Never  Say  Die 


tremor  and  drew  back  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands  as  he  thought  of  that  cat — that  knowing 
cat,  that  loathsome,  that  obscene  cat. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  to  collect 
his  strength  and  summon  his  resolution.  The 
cockroach  had  crawled  to  the  head  of  the  bed 
and  seemed  to  wish  to  partake  of  his  thoughts. 

"Damn  you,  Old  Archibald  Hammil !"  he  cried. 
And  he  scooped  the  cockroach  into  his  hand  with 
a  sudden  sweep  and  flung  it  out  of  the  window. 
The  insect  fell  without  perceptible  discomfort,  and 
at  once  began  to  climb  up  the  outside  wall  again, 
making  for  the  window. 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Hinkley  entered, 
her  face  cleft  with  a  grin,  and  a  tray  in  her  hands. 

"Mr.  Gooley,"  she  said,  setting  it  on  the  wash- 
stand,  "I'll  bet  you  ain't  had  nothing  to  eat  to 
day!" 

On  the  tray  was  a  bowl  of  soup,  a  half  loaf  of 
bread  with  a  long  keen  bread  knife,  a  pat  of  but 
ter,  a  boiled  egg  and  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"No,  nor  yesterday,  either,"  said  Mr.  Gooley, 
and  he  looked  at  the  soup  and  at  the  long  keen 
bread  knife. 

"Here's  something  else  I  want  to  show  you,  Mr. 
Gooley,"  said  the  landlady,  dodging  out  of  the 
door  and  back  in  again  instantly.  She  bore  in  her 
hands  this  time  a  surprising  length  of  flexible  gas 
tubing,  and  a  small  nickel-plated  pearl-handled 
revolver. 

"You   see   that   there   gas   tubing?"    she   said. 

[491 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"That  is  what  that  blondined  party  in  the  next 
room  had  on  to  her  gas  plate — the  nerve  of  her ! 
Strung  from  the  gas  jet  clear  across  the  room  to 
the  window  sill.  And  when  I  throwed  her  out,  Mr. 
Gooley,  she  wouldn't  pay  her  rent,  and  I  took  this 
here  revolver  to  part  pay  it.  What  kind  of  a 
woman  is  it,  Mr.  Gooley,  that  has  a  revolver  in 
her  room,  and  a  loaded  one,  too?" 

Just  then  the  doorbell  rang  in  the  dim  lower 
regions,  and  she  left  the  room  to  answer  it. 

And  Mr.  Gooley  sat  and  looked  at  the  knife, 
with  which  he  might  so  easily  stab  himself,  and 
at  the  gas  cord,  with  which  he  might  so  easily  hang 
himself,  and  at  the  loaded  revolver,  with  which  he 
might  so  easily  shoot  himself. 

He  looked  also  at  the  bowl  of  soup. 

He  had  the  strength  to  reflect — a  meal  is  a  meal., 
But  after  that  meal,  what?  Penniless,  broken  in 
health,  friendless,  a  failure — why  prolong  it  for 
another  twenty-four  hours?  A  meal  would  pro 
long  it,  but  that  was  all  a  meal  would  do — and 
after  that  would  come  the  suffering  and  the  despair 
and  the  end  to  be  faced  all  over  again. 

Was  he  man  enough  to  take  the  pistol  and  do 
it  now? 

Or  did  true  manhood  lie  the  other  way?  Was 
he  man  enough  to  drink  the  soup,  and  dare  to 
live  and  hope  ? 

Just  then  the  cockroach,  which  had  climbed  into 
the  window  and  upon  the  washstand,  made  for 
the  bowl  of  soup. 

[50] 


Never  Say  Die 


"Here !"  cried  Mr.  Gooley,  grabbing  the  bowl 
in  both  hands,  "Old  Man  Hammil!  Get  awayj 
from  that  soup !" 

And  the  bowl  being  in  his  hands,  he  drank. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  Old  Man  Hammil?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Hinkley  who  spoke.  She  stood 
again  in  the  doorway,  with  a  letter  in  her  hands 
and  a  look  of  wonder  on  her  face. 

Mr.  Gooley  set  down  the  soup  bowl.  By  an 
effort  of  the  will  he  had  only  drunk  half  the  liquid. 
He  had  heard  somewhere  that  those  who  are  suf 
fering  from  starvation  had  better  go  slow  at  first 
when  they  get  hold  of  food  again.  And  he  al 
ready  felt  better,  warmed  and  resurrected,  from.' 
the  first  gulp. 

"What,"  demanded  the  landlady,  "do  you  mean 
by  yelling  out  about  Old  Man  Hammil?" 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Gooley,  feeling  foolish,  and 
looking  it,  "I  was  talking  to  that  cockroach  there. 
He  looks  sort -of  like  some  one  I  knew  when  I  was 
a  kid,  by  the  name  of  Hammil — Archibald  Ham- 
mil." 

"Where  was  you  a  kid?"  asked  Mrs.  Hinkley. 

"In  a  place  called  Mapletown — Mapletown,  Il 
linois,"  said  Mr.  Gooley.  "There's  where  I  knew 
Old  Man  Hammil." 

"Well,"  said  the  landlady,  "when  you  go  back 
there  you  won't  see  him.  He's  dead.  He  died  a 
week  ago.  This  letter  tells  it.  I  was  his  niece. 
And  the  old  man  went  and  left  me  his  hardware 
store.  I  never  expected  it.  But  all  his  kids  is 

[51] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


dead — it  seems  he  outlived  'em  all,  and  he  was 
nearly  ninety  when  he  passed  away." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Gooley,  "I  don't  remember 
you." 

"You  wouldn't,"  said  the  landlady.  "You  must 
have  been  in  short  pants  when  I  ran  away  from 
home  and  married  the  hardware  drummer.  But 
I'll  bet  you  the  old-timers  in  that  burg  still  remem 
bers  it  against  me !" 

"The  kids  will  be  coming  into  that  store  about 
now  to  get  their  skates  sharpened,"  said  Mr.  Goo- 
ley,  looking  at  the  boiled  egg. 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Mrs.  Hinkley.  "Don't  you 
want  to  go  back  home  and  help  sharpen  'em?  I'm 
goin'  back  and  run  that  there  store,  and  I'll  need  a 
clerk,  I  suppose." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Mr.  Gooley,  breaking  the  egg 
shell. 

The  cockroach,  busy  with  a  crumb  on  the  floor, 
waved  his  three  starboard  legs  genially  at  Mr. 
Gooley  and  Mrs.  Hinkley — as  if,  in  fact,  he  were 
winking  with  his  feet. 


IV.— McDermott 


IV.—  McDermott 

McDERMOTT  had  gone  over  with  a  cargo  of 
mules.  The  animals  were  disembarked  at  a  Chan 
nel  port,  received  by  officers  of  that  grand  or 
ganization  which  guesses  right  so  frequently,  the 
Quartermaster  Corps,  and  started  in  a  southerly 
direction,  in  carload  lots,  toward  the  Toul  sector 
of  the  Western  Front.  McDermott  went  with  one 
of  the  carloads  in  an  unofficial  capacity.  He  had 
no  business  in  the  war  zone.  But  the  Quarter 
master  Corps,  or  that  part  of  it  in  charge  of  his 
particular  car,  was  in  no  mood  to  be  harsh  toward 
any  one  who  seemed  to  understand  the  wants  and 
humors  of  mules  and  who  was  willing  to  associate 
with  them.  And  so,  with  his  blue  overalls  and  his 
red  beard,  McDermott  went  along. 

"I'll  have  a  look  at  the  war,"  said  McDermott, 
"and  if  I  like  it,  I'll  jine  it." 

"And  if  you  don't  like  it,"  said  the  teamster  to 
jvhom  he  confided  his  intention,  "I  reckon  you'll 
Jtop  it?" 

"I  dunno,"  replied  McDermott,  "as  I  would  be 
ustified  in  stoppin'  a  good  war.  The  McDer- 
notts  has  niver  been  great  hands  f 'r  stoppin'  wars. 

[551 


Carter  and  Other  People 


The  McDermotts  is  always  more  like  to  be  startin' 


wars." 


McDermott  got  a  look  at  the  war  sooner  than 
any  one,  including  the  high  command  of  the  En 
tente    Allies,     would    have    thought    likely — or, 
rather,  the  war  got  a  look  at  McDermott.     The 
carload  of  mules,  separated  from  its  right  and 
proper  train,  got  too  far  eastward  at  just  the  time 
the  Germans  got  too  far  westward.     It  was  in. 
April,    1918,    that,    having   entered   Hazebrouck 
from  the  north,  McDermott  and  his  mules  left  it: 
again,  bound  eastward.     They  passed  through  a 
turmoil  of  guns  and  lorries,  Scotchmen  and  ambu 
lances,  Englishmen,  tanks  and  ammunition  wagons 
Irishmen,  colonials  and  field  kitchens,  all  moving 
slowly  eastward,  and  came  to  a  halt  at  a  littli 
village  where  they  should  not  have  been  at  all 
halfway  between  the  northern  rim  of  the  forest  o 
Nieppe  and  Bailleul. 

The  mules  did  not  stay  there  long. 

'Til  stretch  me  legs  a  bit,"  said  McDermotti 
climbing  off  the  car  and  strolling  toward  a  Grand' 
Place  surrounded  by  sixteenth-century  architecture 
And  just  then  something  passed  over  the  Renais 
sance  roofs  with  the  scream  of  one  of  Dante' 
devils,  struck  McDermott's  car  of  mules  with 
great  noise  and  a  burst  of  flame,  and  straightwa 
created  a  situation  in  which  there  was  neither  cai 
nor  mules. 

For  a  minute  it  seemed  to  McDermott  that  po; 
sibly  there  was  no  McDermott,  either.    When  M 

[56] 


McDermott 


Dermott  regained  consciousness  of  McDermott, 
he  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  and  he  sat  there 
and  felt  of  himself  for  many  seconds  before  he 
spoke  or  rose.  Great  guns  he  had  been  hearing 
for  hours,  and  a  rattle  and  roll  of  small-arms  fire 
had  been  getting  nearer  all  that  day;  but  it  seemed 
to  McDermott  that  there  was  something  quite 
vicious  and  personal  about  the  big  shell  that  had 
separated  him  forever  from  his  mules.  Not  that 
he  had  loved  the  mules,  but  he  loved  McDermott. 

"Mules,"  said  he,  still  sitting  on  the  ground, 
but  trying  to  get  his  philosophy  of  life  on  to  its 
legs  again,  "is  here  wan  minute  an'  gawn  the  nixt. 
Mules  is  fickle  an'  untrustworthy  animals.  Here 
was  thim  mules,  wigglin'  their  long  ears  and  arsk- 
in'  fr  Gawd's  sake  c'u'd  they  have  a  dhrink  of 
wather,  an'  promisin'  a  lifelong  friendship— but 
where  is  thim  mules  now?" 

He  scratched  his  red  head  as  he  spoke,  feeling- 

of  an  old  scar  under  the  thick  thatch  of  hair.  The 

wound  had  been  made  some  years  previously  with 

a  bung  starter,  and  whenever  McDermott  was  agi- 

:  tated  he  caressed  it  tenderly. 

He  got  up,  turned  about  and  regarded  the  ex- 

•  traordinary  Grande  Place.    There  had  once  been 
1  several  pretty  little  shops  about  it,  he  could  see, 

•  with  pleasant  courtyards,  where  the  April  sun  was 
1  trying  to  bring  green  things  into  life  again,  but 
1  now  some  of  these  were  in  newly  made  and  smok 
ing  ruins.     The  shell  that  had  stricken  McDer- 

1  mott's  mules  from  the  roster  of  existence  had  not 

[57] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


been  the  only  one  to  fall  into  the  village  recently. 

But  it  was  neither  old  ruins  nor  new  ruins  that 
interested  McDermott  chiefly.  It  was  the  human 
ity  that  flowed  through  the  Grande  Place  in  a 
feeble  trickle  westward,  and  the  humanity  that 
stayed  there. 

Women  and  old  men  went  by  with  householdj 
treasures  slung  in  bundles  or  pushed  before  them 
in  carts  and  perambulators,  and  they  were  wearing( 
their  best  clothes,  as  if  they  were  going  to  some 
village  fete,  instead  of  into  desolation  and  home- 
lessness;  the  children  whom  they  carried,  or  who 
straggled  after  them,  were  also  in  their  holiday 
best.  Here  was  an  ancient  peasant  with  a  coop 
of  skinny  chickens  on  a  barrow;  there  was  a  girl 
in  a  silk  gown  carrying  something  in  a  bed  quilt; 
yonder  was  a  boy  of  twelve  on  a  bicycle,  and  two 
things  were  tied  to  the  handlebars — a  loaf  of  bread 
and  a  soldier's  bayonet.  Perhaps  it  had  been  his 
father's  bayonet.  Quietly  they  went  westward; 
their  lips  were  dumb  and  their  faces  showed  their 
souls  were  dumb,  too.  A  long  time  they  had  heard 
the  battle  growling  to  the  eastward;  and  now  the 
war  was  upon  them.  It  was  upon  them,  indeed; 
for  as  McDermott  gazed,  another  shell  struck  full 
upon  a  bell-shaped  tower  that  stood  at  the  north 
side  of  the  Grande  Place  and  it  leaped  up  in  flames 
and  fell  in  dust  and  ruin,  all  gone  but  one  irregu 
lar  point  of  masonry  that  still  stuck  out  like  a 
snaggle  tooth  from  a  trampled  skull. 

These  were  the  ones  that  were  going,  and  almost 
[58] 


McDermott 


the  last  of  the  dreary  pageant  disappeared  as  Mc 
Dermott  watched.  But  those  who  stayed  aston 
ished  him  even  more  by  their  strange  actions  and 
uncouth  postures. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  mumbled  McDermott,  rubbing 
his  scar,  "that  all  thim  sojers  is  aslape!" 

But  asleep  they  were.  To  the  east  and  to  the 
north  the  world  was  one  rip  and  rat-a-tat  of  rifle 
and  machine-gun  fire — how  near,  McDermott 
could  not  guess — and  over  the  village  whined  and 
droned  the  shells,  of  great  or  lesser  caliber;  here 
was  one  gate  to  a  hell  of  noise,  and  the  buildings 
stirred  and  the  budding  vines  in  the  courtyards 
moved  and  the  dust  itself  was  agitated  with  the 
breath  and  blast  of  far  and  near  concussions;  but 
yet  the  big  open  Place  itself  was  held  in  the  grip 
of  a  grotesque  and  incredible  slumber. 

Sprawled  in  the  gutters,  collapsed  across  the 
doorsills,  leaning  against  the  walls,  slept  that  por 
tion  of  the  British  army;  slept  strangely,  without 
snoring.  In  the  middle  of  the  Grande  Place  there 
was  a  young  lieutenant  bending  forward  across  the 
wreck  of  a  motor  car;  he  had  tried  to  pluck  forth 
a  basket  from  the  tonneau  and  sleep  had  touched 
him  with  his  fingers  on  the  handle.  And  from  the 
eastern  fringes  of  the  village  there  entered  the 
square,  as  actors  enter  upon  a  stage,  a  group  of  a 
dozen  men,  with  their  arms  linked  together,  sway 
ing  and  dazed  and  stumbling.  At  first  McDermott 
thought  that  wounded  were  being  helped  from  the 
field.  But  these  men  were  not  wounded ;  they  were 

[59] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


walking  in  their  sleep,  and  the  group  fell  apart, 
as  McDermott  looked  at  them,  and  sank  severally 
to  the  cobblestones.  Scotchmen,  Canadians,  Eng 
lish,  torn  and  battered  remnants  of  many  differ 
ent  commands,  they  had  striven  with  their  guns 
and  bodies  for  more  than  a  week  to  dam  the  vast, 
rising  wave  of  the  German  attack — day  melting 
into  night  and  night  burning  into  day  again,  till 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  time  to  them  any  longer; 
there  were  but  two  things  in  the  world,  battle  and 
weariness,  weariness  and  battle. 

McDermott  moved  across  the  square  unchal 
lenged.  He  had  eaten  and  slept  but  little  for  two 
days  himself,  and  he  made  instinctively  for  the 
open  door  of  an  empty  inn,  to  search  for  food. 
In  the  doorway  he  stumbled  across  a  lad  who 
roused  and  spoke  to  him. 

"Jack,"  said  the  boy,  looking  at  him  with  red 
eyes  out  of  an  old,  worn  face,  "have  you  got  the 
makin's?" 

He  was  in  a  ragged  and  muddied  Canadian  uni 
form,  but  McDermott  guessed  that  he  was  an 
American. 

"I  have  that,"  said  McDermott,  producing 
papers  and  tobacco.  But  the  boy  had  lapsed  into 
slumber  again.  McDermott  rolled  the  cigarette 
for  him,  placed  it  between  his  lips,  waked  him  and 
lighted  it  for  him. 

The  boy  took  a  puff  or  two,  and  then  said  dream 
ily:  "And  what  the  hell  are  you  doin'  here  with 
them  blue  overalls  on?" 

[60] 


McDermott 


"I  come  to  look  at  the  war,"  said  McDermott. 

The  soldier  glanced  around  the  Grande  Place, 
and  a  gleam  of  deviltry  flashed  through  his  utter 
exhaustion.  "So  you  come  to  see  the  war,  huh? 
Well,  don't  you  wake  it  now.  It's  restin'.  But  if 
you'll  take  a  chair  and  set  down,  I'll  have  it — called 
— for — you — in — in — in  'n  'our — or  so " 

His  voice  tailed  off  into  sleep  once  more;  he 
mangled  the  cigarette,  the  tobacco  mingling  with 
the  scraggly  beard  about  his  drawn  mouth;  his 
head  fell  forward  upon  his  chest.  McDermott 
stepped  past  him  into  the  Hotel  Faugon,  as  the 
inn  had  called  itself.  He  found  no  food,  but  he, 
found  liquor  there. 

"Frinch  booze,"  said  McDermott,  getting  the 
cork  out  of  a  bottle  of  brandy  and  sniffing  it;  "Butj 
booze  is  booze!" 

And  more  booze  is  more  booze,  especially  upon 
an  empty  stomach.  It  was  after  the  fourth  drink 
that  McDermott  pulled  his  chair  up  to  one  of  the 
open  windows  of  the  inn  and  sat  down,  with  the 
brandy  beside  him. 

"I'm  neglictin'  that  war  I  come  all  this  way  to 
see,"  said  McDermott. 

The  Grande  Place,  still  shaken  by  the  tremend 
ous  and  unceasing  pulsations  of  battle,  far  and 
near,  was  beginning  to  wake  up.  A  fresh,  or,  at 
least,  a  fresher,  battalion  was  arriving  over  the 
spur  line  of  railroad  along  which  McDermott' s 
mules  had  been  so  mistakenly  shunted,  and  was 
moving  eastward  through  the  town  to  the  firing 

[61] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


line.  The  men  whom  McDermott  had  seen  asleep 
were  rising  at  the  word  of  command;  taking  their 
weapons,  falling  in,  and  staggering  back  to  the 
interminable  battle  once  more. 

"I  dunno,"  mused  McDermott,  as  the  tired  men 
straggled  past,  "whether  I  want  to  be  afther  j'inin' 
that  war  or  not.  It  makes  all  thim  lads  that 
slapey!  I  dunno  phwat  the  devil  it  is,  the  Frinch 
booze  bein'  so  close  to  me,  inside,  or  that  war  so 
close  to  me,  outside,  but  I'm  gittin'  slapey  m'- 
silf." 

It  was,  likely,  the  brandy.  There  had  not  been 
a  great  deal  of  French  brandy  in  McDermott's 
previous  experience,  and  he  did  not  stint  himself. 
It  was  somewhere  between  the  ngith  and  the  fif 
teenth  swallows  of  it  that  McDermott  remarked 
to  himself,  rubbing  the  scar  on  his  head: 

"I  w'u'd  jine  that  war  now,  if  I  cVd  be  sure 
which  way  it  had  wint !" 

And  then  he  slid  gently  out  of  his  chair  and  went 
to  sleep  on  the  floor  just  inside  the  open  window 
of  the  Hotel  Faugon. 

The  war  crept  closer  and  took  another  look  at 
McDermott.  As  the  warm  golden  afternoon 
waned,  the  British  troops,  fighting  like  fiends  for 
every  inch  of  ground,  exacting  a  ghastly  toll  of 
lives  from  the  Germans,  were  forced  back  into  the 
eastern  outskirts  of  the  town.  There,  with  rifle 
and  machine  gun,  from  walls,  trees,  courtyards, 
roofs  and  ruins,  they  held  the  advancing  Germans 
for  an  hour.  But  they  were  pushed  back  again, 

[62] 


McDermott 


doggedly  establishing  themselves  in  the  houses  of 
the  Grande  Place.  Neither  British  nor  Germans 
were  dropping  shells  into  that  village  now,  each 
side  fearful  of  damaging  its  own  men. 

A  British  subaltern  with  a  machine  gun  and  two 
private  soldiers  entered  the  inn  and  were  setting 
the  gun  up  at  McDermott's  window  when  a  Ger 
man  bullet  struck  the  officer  and  he  fell  dead  across 
the  slumbering  McDermott.  Nevertheless,  the 
gun  was  manned  and  fought  for  half  an  hour  above 
McDermott,  who  stirred  now  and  then,  but  did  not 
waken.  Just  at  dusk  an  Irish  battalion  struck  the 
Germans  on  the  right  flank  of  their  assaulting 
force,  a  half  mile  to  the  north  of  the  village,  rolled 
them  back  temporarily,  and  cleared  the  village  of 
them.  This  counter  attack  took  the  firing  line  a 
good  thousand  yards  eastward  once  more. 

McDermott  roused,  crawled  from  beneath  the 
body  of  the  British  officer,  and  viewed  it  with  sur 
prise.     "That  war  has  been  here  ag'in  an1  me 
aslape,"  said  McDermott.    "I  might  jine  that  war 
if  I  cVd  ketch  up  wid  it — but  'tis  here,  'tis  there, 
'tis  gawn  ag'in!     An'  how  c'u'd  I  jine  it  wid  no 
weapons,  not  even  a  good  thick  club  to  m'  hands?" 
He  foraged  and  found  a  piece  of  sausage  that 
he  had  overlooked  in  his  former  search,   ate  it 
greedily  and  then  stood  in  the  doorway,  listening 
to  the  sound  of  the  firing.    It  was  getting  dark  and 
northward  toward  Messines  and  Wytschaete  and 
southward  for  more  miles  than  he  could  guess  the 
lightning  of  big  guns  flickered  along  the  sky. 

[63] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Army  way  I  wVd  go,"  mused  McDermott,  "I 
wVd  run  into  that  war  if  I  was  thryin'  to  dodge 
ut.  And  anny  way  I  wVd  go,  I  wVd  miss  that 
war  if  I  was  thryin'  to  come  up  wid  ut.  An'  till 
I  make  up  me  mind  which  wan  I  want  to  do,  here 
will  I  sthay." 

He  opened  another  bottle  of  brandy,  and  drank 
and  cogitated.  Whether  it  was  the  cogitation  or 
the  drinks  or  the  effect  of  the  racket  of  war,  his 
head  began  to  ache  dully.  When  McDermott's 
scar  ached,  it  was  his  custom  to  take  another  drink. 
After  a  while  there  came  a  stage  at  which,  if  it 
still  ached,  he  at  least  ceased  to  feel  it  aching  any 
more. 

"The  hotel  here,"  he  remarked,  "is  filled  wid 
hospitality  and  midical  tratement,  and  where  bet- 
therc'u'dlbe?" 

And  presently,  once  more,  a  deep  sleep  overtook 
him.  A  deeper,  more  profound  sleep,  indeed, 
than  his  former  one.  And  this  time  the  war  came 
still  nearer  to  McDermott. 

The  British  were  driven  back  again  and  again 
occupied  the  town,  the  Germans  in  close  pursuit. 
From  house  to  house  and  from  wall  to  wall  the 
struggle  went  on,  with  grenade,  rifle  and  bayonet. 
A  German,  with  a  Scotchman's  steel  in  his  chest, 
fell  screaming,  back  through  the  open  window, 
and  his  blood  as  he  died  soaked  McDermott's  feet. 
But  McDermott  slept.  Full  night  came,  thick  and 
cloudy,  and  both  sides  sent  up  floating  flares.  The 
square  was  strewn  with  the  bodies  of  the  dead 

[64] 


McDermott 


and  the  bodies  of  the  maimed  in  increasing  num 
bers;  the  wounded  groaned  and  whimpered  in  the. 
shadows  of  the  trampled  Place,  crawling,  if  they 
still  could  crawl,  to  whatever  bit  of  broken  wall 
seemed  to  offer  momentary  shelter  and  praying  for 
the  stretcher  bearers  to  be  speedy.  But  still  Mc 
Dermott  slept. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  two  Englishmen  once 
more  brought  a  machine  gun  into  the  Hotel  Fau- 
gon;  they  worked  the  weapon  for  twenty  minutes 
from  the  window  within  ten  feet  of  which  Mc 
Dermott  now  lay  with  his  brandy  bottle  beside 
him.  Once  McDermott  stirred;  he  sat  up  sleepily 
on  the  floor  and  murmured:  "An'  where  is  that 
war  now?  Begad,  an'  I  don't  belave  there  is  anny 
war!" 

And  he  rolled  over  and  went  to  sleep  again. 
The  men  with  the  machine  gun  did  not  notice  him; 
they  were  too  busy.  A  moment  later  one  of  them 
sank  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart.  His  comrade 
lasted  a  little  longer,  and  then  he,  too,  went  down, 
a  wound  in  his  lungs.  It  took  him  some  weary 
minutes  to  choke  and  bleed  to  death,  there  in  that 
dark  place,  upon  the  floor,  among  the  dead  men 
and  McDermott's  brandy  bottles  and  the  heap  of 
ammunition  he  had  brought  with  him.  His, 
struggle  did  not  wake  McDermott. 

By  midnight  the  British  had  been  driven  back 
until  they  held  the  houses  at  the  west  end  of  the 
town  and  the  end  of  the  spur  railroad  that  came 
eastward  from  Hazebrouck.  The  Germans  were 

[65! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


in  the  eastern  part  of  the  village,  and  between  was 
a  "no  man's  land,"  of  which  the  Grande  Place  was 
a  part.  What  was  left  of  the  Hotel  Faugon,  with 
the  sleeping  McDermott  in  it,  was  toward  the 
middle  of  the  south  side  of  the  square.  In  the 
streets  to  the  north  and  south  of  the  Place  patrols 
still  clashed  with  grenade  and  bayonet  and  rifle,, 
but  the  Germans  attempted  no  further  advance  in 
any  force  after  midnight.  No  doubt  they  were 
bringing  up  more  men;  no  doubt,  with  the  first 
morning  light,  they  would  move  forward  a  regi 
ment  or  two,  possibly  even  a  division,  against  the 
British  who  still  clung  stubbornly  to  the  western 
side  of  the  town.  All  the  way  from  Wytschaete 
south  to  Givenchy  the  battle-line  was  broken  up 
into  many  little  bitter  struggles  of  this  sort,  the 
British  at  every  point  facing  great  odds. 

When  dawn  came,  there  came  with  it  a  mist. 
And  three  men  of  a  German  patrol,  creeping  from 
house  to  house  and  ruin  to  ruin  along  the  south 
side  of  that  part  of  "no  man's  land"  which  was 
the  Grande  Place,  entered  the  open  door  of  the 
Hotel  Faucon. 

One  of  them  stepped  upon  McDermott' s  stom 
ach,  where  he  lay  sleeping  and  dreaming  of  the 
war  he  had  come  to  look  at. 

McDermott,  when  he  had  been  drinking,  was 
often  cross.  And  especially  was  he  cross  if,  when 
sleeping  off  his  liquor,  some  one  purposely  or  in-, 
advertently  interfered  with  his  rightful  and  legiti 
mate  rest.  When  this  coarse  and  heavy-footed  in- 

[66] 


McDermott 


truder  set  his  boot,  albeit  unwittingly,  upon  Mc 
Dermott' s  stomach,  McDermott  sat  up  with  a  bel 
low    of    rage,    instinctively    and    instantaneously 
grabbed  the  leg  attached  to  the  boot,  rose  as  burn 
ing  rocks  rise  from  a  volcano,  with  the  leg  in  his 
hands,  upset  the  man  attached  to  the  leg,   and 
jumped  with  two  large  feet  accurately  upon  the 
back  of  that  person's  neck.    Whereupon  the  Troche 
went  to  Valhalla.      McDermott,    though   nearer 
fifty  than  forty  years  old,  was  a  barroom  fighter 
of  wonderful  speed  and  technique,   and  this  in 
stinctive  and  spontaneous  maneuver  was  all  one 
motion,  just  as  it  is  all  one  motion  when  a  cat  in  a 
cellar  leaps  over  a  sack  of  potatoes,  lands  upon 
a  rat,  and  sinks  her  teeth  into  a  vital  spot.     The 
second  German  and  the  third  German  hung  back 
an  instant  toward  the   door,   and  then  came  on 
toward  the  moving  shadow  in  the  midst  of  shad 
ows.     For  their  own  good  they  should  have  come 
on  without  hanging  back  that  second;  but  perhaps 
their  training,  otherwise  so  efficient,  did  not  include 
barroom  tactics.     Their  hesitation  gave  McDer 
mott  just  the  time  he  needed,  for  when  he  faced 
them  he  had  the  first  German's  gun  in  his  hands. 
"No  war,"  said  McDermott,  "can  come  into  me 
slapin'  chamber  and  stand  on  me  stomach  like  that, 
and  expict  me  to  take  it  peaceful !" 

With  the  words  he  fired  the  first  German's  rifle 
into  the  second  German.  The  third  German,  to 
the  rear  of  the  second  one,  fired  his  gun  simul- 

[67] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


taneously,  but  perhaps  he  was  a  bit  flurried,  for 
he  also  fired  directly  into  the  second  German,  and 
there  was  nothing  the  second  German  could  do 
but  die ;  which  he  did  at  once.  McDermott  leaped 
at  the  third  German  with  his  rifle  clubbed  just  as 
the  man  pressed  the  trigger  again.  The  bullet 
struck  McDermott's  rifle,  splintered  the  butt  of 
it  and  knocked  it  from  his  hands;  but  a  second 
later  McDermott's  hands  were  on  the  barrel  of 
the  German's  gun  and  the  two  of  them  were 
struggling  for  it. 

There  is  one  defect  in  the  German  military  sys 
tem,  observers  say:  the  drill  masters  do  not  teach 
their  men  independent  thinking;  perhaps  the  drill- 
masters  do  not  have  the  most  promising  material 
to  work  upon.  At  any  rate,  it  occurred  to  Mc 
Dermott  to  kick  the  third  German  in  the  stomach 
while  the  third  German  was  still  thinking  of  noth 
ing  else  than  trying  to  depress  the  gun  to  shoot 
or  bayonet  McDermott  Thought  and  kick  were 
as  well  coordinated  as  if  they  had  proceeded  from 
one  of  McDermott' s  late  mules. 

The  Boche  went  to  the  floor  of  the  Hotel  Faucon 
with  a  groan.  "Gott !"  he  said. 

"A  stomach  fr  a  stomach, "  said  Mc-Dermott, 
standing  over  him  with  the  rifle.  "Git  up  I" 

The  German  painfully  arose. 

uYe  are  me  prisoner,"  said  McDermott,  uan' 
the  furst  wan  I  iver  took.  Hould  up  y'r  hands ! 
Hould  thim  up,  I  say !  Not  over  y'r  stomach,  man, 
but  over  y'r  head!" 

[68] 


McDermott 


The  Boche  complied  hurriedly. 

"I  see  ye  understhand  United  States/1  said  Mc 
Dermott.  "I  was  afraid  ye  might  not,  an*  I  w'u'd 
have  to  shoot  ye." 

"Kameradr*  exclaimed  the  man. 

"Ye  are  no  comrade  av  mine,"  said  McDermott, 
peering  at  the  man's  face  through  the  eery  half- 
light  of  early  morning,  "an*  comrade  av  mine  ye 
niver  was !  I  know  ye  well !  Ye  are  Goostave 
Schmidt  b'  name,  an*  wanst  ye  tinded  bar  in  a  dive 
down  b'  the  Brooklyn  wather  front !" 

The  man  stared  at  McDermott  in  silence  for  a 
long  minute,  and  then  recollection  slowly  came  to 
him. 

"MagDermoddl"  he  said.  "Batrick  MagDer- 
modd!" 

"The  same,"  said  McDermott. 

"Gott  set  dank!"  said  the  German.  "I  haf 
fallen  into  der  hands  of  a  friend."  And  with  the 
beginning  of  a  smile  he  started  to  lower  his  hands. 

"Put  thim  up !"  cried  McDermott.  "Don't  de- 
save  y'silf !  Ye  are  no  fri'nd  av  mine !" 

The  smile  faded,  and  something  like  a  look  of 
panic  took  its  place  on  the  German's  face. 

"Th'  last  time  I  saw  ye,  ye  was  in  bad  company, 
f'r  ye  was  alone,"  said  McDermott.  "An'  I  come 
over  here  lookin'  f'r  ye,  an'  I  find  ye  in  bad  com 
pany  ag'in!" 

"Looking?"  said  the  German  with  quite  sincere 
perplexity.  "You  gome  here  looking  for  me?" 

The  wonder  on  the  man's  face  at  this  unpre- 
[69] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


meditated  jest  of  his  having  crossed  the  Atlantic 
especially  to  look  for  Gustave  Schmidt  titillated 
McDermott's  whole  being.  But  he  did  not  laugh, 
and  he  let  the  German  wonder.  "And  phwy  sh'u'd 
I  not?"  he  said. 

The  German  thought  intensely  for  a  while. 
uWhy  should  you  gome  all  der  vay  agross  der 
Adlandic  looking  for  me?"  he  said  finally. 

"Ye  have  a  short  mimory,"  said  McDermott. 
"Ye  do  not  recollict  the  time  ye  hit  me  on  the  head 
wid  a  bung  starter  whin  I  was  too  soused  to  de- 
find  m'silf  ?  The  scar  is  there  yet,  bad  luck  to  ye  !" 

"But  dot  was  nudding,"  said  the  German.  "Dot 
bung-starder  business  was  all  a  bart  of  der  day's 
vork." 

"But  ye  cript  up  behint  me,"  said  McDermott; 
"an*  me  soused!"  , 

"But  dot  was  der  bractical  vay  to  do  it,"  said 
the  German.  "Dot  was  nuddings  at  all,  dot  bung- 
starder  business.  I  haf  f  orgodden  it  long  ago !" 

"The  McDermotts  remimber  thim  compliments 
longer,"  said  McDermott.  "An'  b'  rights  I  shVd 
give  ye  wan  good  clout  wid  this  gun  and  be  done 
wid  ye.  But  I'm  thinkin'  I  may  be  usin'  ye  other 
wise." 

"You  gome  all  der  vay  agross  der  Adlandic 
yoost  because  I  hit  you  on  der  head  mit  a  bung 
starder?"  persisted  the  German,  still  wondering. 
"Dot,  MagDermodd,  I  cannot  belief — Nein!" 

"And  ye  tore  up  y'r  citizenship  papers  and  come 
[70] 


McDermott 


all  the  way  across  the  Atlantic  just  to  jine  this 
gang  av  murtherin'  child-killers,"  said  McDermott. 
'Thatlc'nbelave!  Yis!" 

"But  I  haf  not  dorn  up  my  American  cidizen 
papers — Nein!"  exclaimed  the  German,  earnestly. 
"Dose  I  haf  kept.  I  gome  across  to  fight  for  mein 
Faderland — dot  vas  orders.  Ja!  But  mein 
American  cidizenship  papers  I  haf  kept,  and  ven 
der  war  is  ofer  I  shall  go  back  to  Brooklyn  and 
once  more  an  American  citizen  be,  undill  der  next 
war.  Ja!  You  haf  not  understood,  but  dot  is  der 
vay  of  it.  Ja!" 

"Goostave,"  said  McDermott,  "ye  have  too 
many  countries  workin'  f'r  ye.  But  y'r  takin' 
ordhers  from  m'silf  now — do  ye  get  that?  C'n 
ye  play  that  musical  insthrumint  there  by  the  win 
dow?" 

"Ja!"  said  Gustave.      "Dot  gun  I  can  vork. 

Dot  is  der  Lewis  machine  gun.    Id  is  not  so  good 

a  gun  as  our  machine  gun,  for  our  machine  gun 

haf  been  a  colossal  sugcess,  but  id  is  a  goot  gun." 

"Ye  been  fightin'  f'r  the  Kaiser  f'r  three  or  four 

years,  Goostave,"  said  McDermott,  menacing  him 

with  his  rifle,  "but  this  mornin'  I'll  be  afther  seein' 

that  ye  do  a  bit  av  work  f'r  thim  citizenship  papers, 

!  an',  later,  ye  can  go  to  hell,  if  ye  like,  an'  natural- 

!  ize  y'rsilf  in  still  a  third  country.     Ye  will  shoot 

Germans  wid  that  gun  till  I  get  the  hang  av  the 

mechanism  m'silf.    And  thin  I  will  shoot  Germans 

wid  that  gun.     But  furst,  ye  will  give  me  that 

fancy  tin  soup-bowl  ye're  wearin'." 

[71] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Gustave  handed  over  his  helmet.  McDermott 
put  it  on  his  red  head. 

"I've  been  thinkin1,"  said  McDermott,  "will  I 
jine  this  war,  or  will  I  not  jine  it.  An'  the  only 
way  ye  c'n  tell  do  ye  like  a  thing  or  do  ye  not  is  to 
thry  it  wance.  Wid  y'r  assistance,  Goostave,  I'll 
thry  it  this  mornin',  if  anny  more  av  it  comes  my 
way." 

More  of  it  was  coming  his  way.  The  Germans, 
tired  of  trifling  with  the  small  British  force  which 
held  the  village,  had  brought  up  the  better  part  of 
a  division  during  the  night  and  were  marshaling 
the  troops  for  their  favorite  feat  of  arms,  an 
overwhelming  frontal  attack  en  masse.  The  Brit 
ish  had  likewise  received  reinforcements,  drawing 
from  the  north  and  from  the  south  every  man  the 
hard-pressed  lines  could  spare.  But  they  were  not 
many,  perhaps  some  three  thousand  men  in  all,  to 
resist  the  massed  assault,  with  the  railroad  for  its 
objective,  which  would  surely  come  with  dawn.  If 
troops  were  needed  in  the  village  they  were  no 
less  needed  on  the  lines  that  flanked  it.  The  little 
town,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  much  des 
perate  skirmishing  the  day  before  and  during  the 
first  half  of  the  night,  was  now  about  to  become 
the  ground  of  something  like  a  battle. 

"There's  a  French  division  on  the  way,"  said 
the  British  colonel  in  command  in  the  village  to 
one  of  his  captains.  "If  we  can  only  hold  them 
for  an  hour " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  As  he  spoke  the 
[72] 


McDermott 


German  bombardment,  precedent  to  the  infantry 
attack,  began  to  comb  the  western  fringes  of  the 
town  and  the  railroad  line  behind,  searching  for 
the  hurriedly-digged  and  shallow  trenches,  the  im 
provised  dugouts,  the  shell  holes,  the  cellars  and 
the  embankments  where  the  British  lay.  The  Brit 
ish  guns  to  the  rear  of  the  village  made  answer, 
and  the  uproar  tore  the  mists  of  dawn  to  tatters. 
A  shell  fell  short,  into  the  middle  of  the  Grande 
Place,  and  McDermott  saw  the  broken  motor  car 
against  which  the  sleeping  lieutenant  had  leaned 
the  day  before  vanish  into  nothingness;  and  then 
a  house  directly  opposite  the  Hotel  Faucon  jumped 
into  flame  and  was  no  more.  Looking  out  across 
the  back  of  the  stooping  Gustave  at  the  window, 
McDermott  muttered,  "I  dunno  as  I  wVd  want 
to  jine  that  war."  And  then  he  bellowed  in  Gus 
tave  Schmidt's  ear:  "Cut  loose!  Cut  loose  wid 
y'rgun!  Cut  loose!" 

"I  vill  not!"  shrieked  Gustave.  "Mein  Gottf 
Dat  is  mein  own  regiment!" 

"Ye  lie !"  shouted  McDermott.  "Ye  will!"  He 
thrust  a  bit  of  bayonet  into  the  fleshiest  part  of  the 
German's  back. 

"I  vill!     I  vill!"  cried  Gustave. 

"Ye  will  that,"  said  McDermott,  "an*  the  less 
damned  nonsinse  I  hear  from  ye  about  y'r  own 
rigimint  the  betther  f'r  ye !  Ye're  undher  me  own 
ordhers  till  I  c'n  make  up  me  mind  about  this  war." 

The  mists  were  rising.  In  the  clearing  daylight 
at  the  eastern  end  of  the  square,  as  if  other  clouds 

[73] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


were  moving  forward  with  a  solid  front,  appeared 
the  first  gray  wave  of  the  German  infantry.  Close 
packed,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  three  deep,  they 
came,  almost  filling  the  space  from  side  to  side  of 
the  Grande  Place,  moving  across  that  open  stretch 
against  the  British  fire  with  a  certain  heavy-footed 
and  heavy-brained  contempt  of  everything  before 
them.  Ten  steps,  and  the  British  machine  guns 
and  rifles  caught  them.  The  first  wave,  or  half 
of  it,  went  down  in  a  long  writhing  windrow,  across 
the  east  end  of  the  square,  and  in  the  instant  that 
he  saw  it  squirm  and  toss  before  the  trampling 
second  wave  swept  over  it  and  through  it,  the 
twisting  gray-clad  figures  on  the  stones  reminded 
McDermott  of  the  heaps  of  heaving  worms  he 
used  to  see  at  the  bottom  of  his  bait-can  when  he 
went  fishing  as  a  boy. 

"Hold  that  nozzle  lower,  Goostave!"  he  yelled 
to  his  captive.  "Spray  thim!  Spray  thim!  Ye're 
shootin'  over  their  heads,  ye  lumberin'  Dutchman, 
ye!" 

"Gott!"  cried  Gustave,  as  another  jab  of  the 
bayonet  urged  him  to  his  uncongenial  task. 

And  then  McDermott  made  one  of  the  few  er 
rors  of  his  military  career.  Whether  it  was  the 
French  brandy  he  had  drunk  to  excess  the  night 
before,  or  whether  it  was  the  old  bung-starter 
wound  on  his  head,  which  always  throbbed  and 
jumped  when  he  became  excited,  his  judgment  de 
serted  him  for  an  instant.  For  one  instant  he  for 
got  that  there  must  be  no  instants  free  from  the 

[741 


McDermott 


immediate    occupation   of   guiding   and   directing 
Gustave. 

"Let  me  see  if  I  can't  work  that  gun  m'self,"  he 
cried. 

As  he  relaxed  his  vigilance,  pushing  the  German 
to  one  side,  the  Boche  suddenly  struck  him  upon 
the  jaw.  McDermott  reeled  and  dropped  his  rifle ; 
before  he  could  recover  himself,  the  German  had 
it.  The  weapon  swung  upward  in  the  air  and — 
just  then  a  shell  burst  outside  the  open  window  of 
the  Hotel  Faugon. 

Both  men  were  flung  from  their  feet  by  the  con 
cussion.  For  a  moment  everything  was  blank  to 
McDermott.  And  then,  stretching  out  his  hand  to 
rise,  his  fingers  encountered  something  smooth  and 
hard  upon  the  floor.  Automatically  his  grasp 
closed  over  it  and  he  rose.  At  the  same  instant 
the  German  struggled  to  his  feet,  one  hand  be 
hind  his  back,  and  the  other  extended,  as  if  in 
entreaty. 

"Kamerad"  he  whined,  and  even  as  he  whined 
he  lurched  nearer  and  flung  at  McDermott  a 
jagged,  broken  bottle.  McDermott  ducked,  and 
the  dagger-like  glass  splintered  on  his  helmet.  And 
then  McDermott  struck — once.  Once  was  enough. 
The  Boche  sank  to  the  floor  without  a  groan,  life 
less.  McDermott  looked  at  him,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  looked  at  what  he  held  in  his  own 
hand,  the  weighty  thing  which  he  had  wielded  so 
instinctively  and  with  such  ferocity.  It  was  the 
bung  starter  of  the  Hotel  Faugon. 

[75] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Goostave  niver  knowed  what  hit  him,"  said 
McDermott.  And  if  there  had  been  any  one  to 
hear,  in  all  that  din,  a  note  of  regret  that  Gustavo 
never  knew  might  have  been  remarked  in  his  voice. 

McDermott  turned  his  attention  to  the  machine 
gun,  which,  with  its  tripod,  had  been  knocked  td 
the  floor.  He  squatted,  with  his  head  below  the 
level  of  the  window  sill,  and  looked  it  over. 

'Tis  not  broken,"  he  decided,  after  some  mo 
ments  of  examination.  "Did  Goostave  do  it  so? 
Or  did  he  do  it  so?"  He  removed  his  helmet  and 
rubbed  the  scar  under  his  red  hair  reflectively.  "If 
I  was  to  make  up  me  mind  to  jine  that  war,"  mused 
McDermott,  "this  same  w'u'd  be  a  handy  thing  to 
take  wid  me.  It  wVd  that !  Now,  did  that  Goos 
tave  that  used  to  be  here  pull  this  pretty  little 
thingumajig  so  ?  Or  did  he  pull  it  so  ?  I  have  ut ! 
He  pulled  it  so!  And  thim  cartridges,  now — do 
they  feed  in  so  ?  Or  do  they  feed  in  so  ?  'T  wVd 
be  a  handy  thing,  now,  f'r  a  man  that  had  anny 
intintions  av  jinin'  the  war  to  know  about  all  thim 
things!" 

And,  patiently,  McDermott  studied  the  mech 
anism,  while  the  red  sunlight  turned  to  yellow  in 
the  Grande  Place  outside,  and  the  budding  green 
vines  withered  along  the  broken  walls,  and  the 
stones  ran  blood,  and  the  Hotel  Faugon  began  to 
fall  to  pieces  about  his  ears.  McDermott  did  not 
hurry;  he  felt  that  there  was  no  need  to  hurry; 
he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  whether  he  in 
tended  to  participate  in  this  war.  By  the  time  he 

[76] 


McDermott 


had  learned  how  to  work  that  machine  gun,  and 
had  used  it  on  the  Germans  for  a  while,  he  thought, 
he  might  be  vouchsafed  some  light  on  that  par 
ticular  subject.  It  was  one  of  McDermott's  fixed 
beliefs  that  he  was  an  extremely  cautious  sort  of 
man,  though  many  of  his  acquaintances  thought  of 
him  differently,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  must 
not  get  too  far  into  this  war  until  he  was  sure  that 
it  was  going  to  be  congenial.  So  far,  it  promised 
well. 

And  also,  McDermott,  as  he  puzzled  over  the 
machine  gun,  was  not  quite  the  normal  McDer 
mott.  He  was,  rather,  a  supernormal  McDer 
mott.  He  had  been  awakened  rudely  from  an 
alcoholic  slumber  and  he  had  been  rather  busy 
ever  since ;  so  many  things  had  taken  place  in  his 
immediate  neighborhood,  and  were  still  taking 
place,  that  he  was  not  quite  sure  of  their  reality. 
As  he  sat  on  the  floor  and  studied  the  weapon,  he 
was  actually,  from  moment  to  moment,  more  than 
half  convinced  that  he  was  dreaming — he  might 
awaken  and  find  that  that  war  had  eluded  him 
again.  Perhaps  he  is  scarcely  to  be  chided  for 
being  in  what  is  sometimes  known  as  a  state  of 
mind. 

And  while  McDermott  was  looking  at  the  ma 
chine  gun,  the  British  commander  prayed,  as  a 
greater  British  commander  before  him  had  prayed 
one  time,  for  assistance,  only  this  one  did  not  pray 
for  night  or  Bliicher  as  Wellington  had  done. 
Night  was  many  hours  beyond  all  hope  and  would 

[771 


Carter  and  Other  People 


probably  bring  its  own  hell  when  it  came,  and  as 
for  Prussians,  there  were  too  many  Prussians  now. 
His  men  would  hold  on;  they  had  been  holding  on 
for  epic  days  and  unbelievable  nights,  and  they 
would  still  hold  while  there  was  breath  in  their 
bodies,  and  when  their  bodies  were  breathless  they 
would  hold  one  minute  more.  But — God!  For 
Foch's  poilus!  There  is  a  moment  which  is  the 
ultimate  moment;  the  spirit  can  drag  the  body  un 
til — until  spirit  and  body  are  wrenched  into  two 
things.  No  longer.  His  men  could  die  in  their 
tracks;  they  were  dying  where  they  stood  and 
crouched  and  lay,  by  dozens  and  by  scores  and  by 
heroic  hundreds — but  when  they  were  dead,  who 
would  bar  the  way  to  Hazebrouck,  and  beyond 
Hazebrouck,  to  the  channel  ports? 

That  way  was  all  but  open  now,  if  the  enemy 
but  realized  it.  Any  moment  they  might  discover 
if.  A  half-mile  to  the  south  of  the  village  the  line 
was  so  thinly  held  that  one  strong,  quick  thrust 
must  make  a  gap.  Let  the  enemy  but  fling  a  third 
of  the  troops  he  was  pounding  to  pieces  in  the 
bloody  streets  of  the  town,  in  the  torn  fields  that 
flanked  it,  and  in  the  shambles  of  the  Grande  Place 
that  was  the  center  of  this  action,  at  that  weak 
spot,  and  all  was  over.  But  with  a  fury  mechani 
cal,  insensate,  the  Germans  still  came  on  in  direct 
frontal  attacks. 

The  British  had  slain  and  slain  and  slain,  firing 
into  the  gray  masses  until  the  water  boiled  in  the 
jackets  of  the  machine  guns.  Five  attacks  had 

[78] 


McDermott 


broken  down  in  the  Grande  Place  itself — and  now 
a  sixth  was  forming.  Should  he  still  hold  fast, 
the  colonel  asked  himself,  or  should  he  retire,  sav 
ing  what  machine  guns  he  might,  and  flinging  a- 
desperate  detachment  southward  in  the  attempt  to 
make  a  stronger  right  flank?  But  to  do  that  might 
be  the  very  move  that  would  awaken  the  Germans 
to  their  opportunity  there.  So  long  as  they 
pounded,  pounded  at  his  center,  he  would  take  a 
toll  of  them,  at  least — but  the  moment  was  com 
ing 

"I  have  ut!"  cried  McDermott,  and  mounted 
his  gun  at  the  window. 

"It  is  time  to  retire,"  said  the  British  colonel, 
and  was  about  to  give  the  order. 

"Right  in  their  bloody  backs,"  said  McDermott 
to  himself. 

And  so  it  was.  For  the  sixth  advance  of  the 
German  masses  had  carried  them  well  into  the 
Grande  Place.  McDermott,  crouched  at  his  win 
dow,  cut  loose  with  his  gun  at  pointblank  range  as 
the  first  wave,  five  men  deep,  passed  by  him,  splash 
ing  along  the  thick  ranks  from  behind  as  one  might 
sweep  a  garden  hose  down  a  row  of  vegetables. 
Taken  thus  in  the  rear,  ambushed,  with  no  knowl 
edge  of  the  strength  of  the  attacking  force  behind 
them,  the  German  shock  troops  swayed  and  stag 
gered,  faced  about  and  fell  and  broke.  For  right 

[79] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


into  the  milling  herd  of  them,  and  into  the  second 
advancing  wave,  the  British  poured  their  bullets. 
The  colonel,  who  had  been  about  to  order  a  re 
treat,  ordered  a  charge,  and  before  the  stampeded 
remnant  of  the  first  two  waves  could  recover  them 
selves  the  British  were  on  them  with  grenades  and 
bayonets,  flinging  them  back  into  the  third  wave, 
just  advancing  to  their  support,  in  a  bleeding 
huddle  of  defeat. 

McDermott  saw  the  beginning  of  that  charge, 
and  with  his  bung  starter  in  his  hand  he  rushed 
from  the  door  to  join  it.  But  he  did  not  see  the 
end  of  it,  nor  did  he  see  the  poilus,  as  they  came 
slouching  into  the  village  five  minutes  later  to  give 
the  repulse  weight  and  confirmation,  redolent  of 
onions  and  strange  stews,  but  with  their  bayonets 
— those  bayonets  that  are  part  of  the  men  who 
wield  them,  living  things,  instinct  with  the  beau 
tiful,  straight,  keen  soul  of  France  herself. 

McDermott  did  not  see  them,  for  some  more 
of  the  Hotel  Faugon  had  fallen  on  him,  crushing 
one  of  his  ankles  and  giving  him  a  clout  on  the 
head. 

"Whoever  it  was  turned  loose  that  machine  gun 
from  the  inn  window,  did  the  trick,"  said  the  colo 
nel,  later.  "It's  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  he 
blocked  the  way  to  Hazebrouck — for  the  time,  at 
least,  if  one  man  can  be  said  to  have  done  such  a 
thing — what's  that?" 

"That"  was  McDermott,  who  was  being  carried 
forth,  unconscious,  to  an  ambulance.  It  was  his 

[80] 


McDermott 


blue  overalls  that  had  occasioned  the  colonel's  sur 
prise.  He  was  neither  French  nor  British  nor  Ger 
man;  palpably  he  was  a  civilian,  and  a  civilian  who 
had  no  business  there.  And  in  his  hand  he  clasped 
a  bung  starter.  His  fingers  were  closed  over  it 
so  tightly  that  in  the  base  hospital  later  they  found 
difficulty  in  taking  it  away  from  him. 

Owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  blow  on  his  head,  Mc 
Dermott  was  unable  to  recall  clearly  anything  that 
had  taken  place  from  the  moment  he  had  first 
fallen  asleep  under  the  influence  of  French  brandy 
until  he  awakened  in  the  hospital  nearly  four  weeks 
later.  During  this  period  there  had  been  several 
intervals  of  more  open-eyed  dreaming,  succeeded 
by  lapses  into  profound  stupor;  but  even  in  these 
open-eyed  intervals,  McDermott  had  not  been 
himself.  It  was  during  one  of  these  intervals  that 
a  representative  of  the  French  Government  be 
stowed  the  Crolx  de  Guerre  upon  McDermott,  for 
it  had  been  learned  that  he  was  the  man  behind 
the  machine  gun  that  had  turned  the  tide  of 
combat. 

McDermott,  his  eyes  open,  but  his  mind  in  too 
much  of  a  daze  even  to  wonder  what  the  cere 
mony  was  about,  sat  in  a  wheel  chair,  and  in  com 
pany  with  half  a  dozen  other  men  selected  for 
decoration,  listened  to  a  brief  oration  in  very  good 
French,  which  he  could  not  have  understood  had 
he  been  normal.  In  answer  he  muttered  in  a  low 
tone,  rubbing  his  broken  and  bandaged  head:  "I 
think  maybe  I  will  jine  that  war,  afther  all !" 

[81] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


The  French  officer  assumed  that  McDermott 
had  spoken  some  sort  of  compliment  to  France  and 
kissed  McDermott  on  both  cheeks,  in  front  of  the 
hospital  staff,  several  American  reporters,  and  as 
much  of  the  French  army  as  could  be  spared  to 
do  honor  to  the  occasion.  The  Crolx  de  Guerre 
made  no  impression  upon  McDermott,  but  the  kiss 
briefly  arrested  his  wandering  consciousness,  and 
he  cried  out,  starting  up  in  his  chair  and  menacing 
the  officer:  "Where  is  me  bung  starter?"  Then 
he  fainted. 

A  good  many  thousands  of  people  in  France 
and  England  and  America  learned  from  the  news 
papers  the  story  of  the  nondescript  in  the  blue 
overalls,  who  had  behaved  so  gallantly  at  the 
crucial  moment  of  a  crucial  fight.  But  McDer 
mott  never  did.  He  seldom  read  newspapers. 
No  one  had  been  able  to  learn  his  name,  so  the 
reporters  had  given  him  a  name.  They  called  him 
"Dennis."  And  it  was  "Dennis"  who  got  the 
fame  and  glory.  McDermott  would  not  have 
identified  himself  with  Dennis  had  he  seen  the 
newspapers.  When  he  awakened  from  his  long, 
broken  stupor,  with  its  intervals  of  dazed  half- 
consciousness,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  steal 
away  from  that  hospital;  he  left  without  having 
heard  of  Dennis  or  of  the  decoration  of  Dennis. 

There  was  one  thing  that  he  had  experienced 
that  did  live  hazily  and  confusedly  in  his  memory, 
however,  although  he  could  not  fix  it  in  its  rela 
tionship  to  any  other  thing.  And  that  was  the  fact 

[82] 


McDermott 


that  he  had  met  Gustave  Schmidt.  Three  or  four 
months  after  he  slipped  away  from  the  hospital — 
a  period  of  unchronicled  wanderings,  during  which 
he  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to  enlist  several  times 
— he  limped  into  a  saloon  on  the  Brooklyn  water 
front  and  asked  Tim  O'Toole,  the  proprietor,  for 
his  usual.  He  had  just  got  back  to  Brooklyn,  and 
he  carried  his  earthly  possessions  in  a  bundle 
wrapped  in  brown  paper. 

"I  hear  Yordy  Crowley  isn't  givin'  his  racket 
this  year,"  said  McDermott,  laying  his  bundle  on 
the  bar  and  pouring  out  his  drink. 

"He  is  not,"  said  Tim.  "He  is  in  France  help- 
in'  out  thim  English." 

"Yordy  will  make  a  good  sojer,"  said  McDer 
mott.  "He  is  a  good  man  of  his  fists." 

"The  Irish  is  all  good  sojers,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole, 
sententiously.  "There  was  that  man  Dinnis,  now, 
that  was  in  all  av  the  papers." 

"I  did  not  hear  av  him,"  said  McDermott.  "An' 
phwat  did  he  do?" 

"He  licked  th'  entire  German  army  wan  morn- 
in',"  said  O'Toole,  "an'  saved  England,  an'  the 
Quane  of  France  kissed  him  for  it.  'Twas  in  all 
the  papers.  Or,  maybe,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole,  "it 
was  the  King  av  Belg'um  kissed  him  for  ut.  Anny- 
way  wan  of  thim  foreign  powers  kissed  him  wid 
the  whole  world  lookin'  on." 

"An'  phwat  did  this  Dinnis  do  thin?"  asked 
McDermott. 

"He  attimpted  to  assault  the  person  that  kissed 
[83] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


him,"  said  OToole.  "Maybe  'twas  the  King  av 
Italy.  'Twas  in  all  the  papers  at  th'  time.  Some 
wan  told  me  ye  were  in  France  y'rsilf,  Paddy." 

"I  was  that,"  said  McDermott.  "I  wint  wid 
mules." 

"Did  ye  see  annything  av  the  war?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  McDermott.  "Divil  a  bit  of 
ut,  barrin'  a  lot  o'  racket  an'  a  big  roarin'  divil  av 
a  stame-boiler  thing  that  come  bustin'  through  th' 
air  an'  took  away  the  mules  that  was  me  passport. 
But  I  come  near  seein'  some  av  ut,  wan  time." 

"An'  how  was  it  that  ye  come  near  it,  anf  missed 
it?"  inquired  Tim. 

"I  wint  to  slape,"  said  McDermott.  "The  war 
was  slapin',  an'  I  laid  m'silf  down  b'  the  side  av 
ut  an'  took  a  nap,  too.  Later,  I  woke  up  in  the 
hospital,  some  wan  havin'  stipped  on  me  whilst  I 
was  slapin',  or  somethin'  .  They  was  afther  keep- 
in'  me  in  th'  hospital  indefinite,  an'  I  slipped  away 
wan  mornin',  dodgin'  the  orderlies  an'  nurses,  or 
I  might  have  been  there  yet  eatin'  jelly  an'  gettin* 
me  face  washed  f'r  me.  An'  afther  I  got  back 
here  I  thried  to  jine  that  war,  but  th'  Amurrican 
Army  w'u'd  not  have  me." 

"And  phwy  not?" 

"Because  av  me  fut." 

"And  how  did  ye  hurt  y'r  fut?" 

"Divil  a  bit  do  I  know  how,"  said  McDermott. 
"I'm  tellin'  ye  'twas  done  whilst  I  was  aslape.  I 
remimber  gettin'  soused  in  wan  av  thim  Frinch 
barrooms,  an'  I  w'u'd  think  it  was  a  mule  stipped 

[84] 


McDermott 


on  me  fut  whin  I  was  slapin'  off  me  souse,  excipt 
that  thim  mules  was  gone  before  I  got  me  souse." 

"An'  ye  saw  naught  av  the  war?"  Tim  was  dis 
tinctly  disappointed. 

"But  little  of  ut,  but  little  of  ut,"  said  McDer 
mott.  uBut,  Timmy, — wan  thing  I  did  whilst  I 
was  in  France." 

"An*  phwat  was  that?" 

"I  avenedup  an  ould  grudge,"  said  McDermott. 
He  put  away  a  second  drink,  rolling  it  over  his 
tongue  with  satisfaction.  "Do  ye  mind  that  Goos- 
tave  Schmidt  that  used  to  kape  bar  acrost  the 
strate?  Ye  do!  Do  ye  mind  th'  time  he  hit  me 
wid  th'  bung  starter?  Ye  do !" 

"Phwat  thin?" 

"Well,  thin,"  said  McDermott,  "I  met  up  wid 
him  ag'in  in  wan  av  thim  Frinch  barrooms.  I  do 
not  remimber  phwat  he  said  to  me  nor  phwat  I 
said  to  him,  for  I  was  soused,  Timmy.  But  wan 
word  led  to  another,  an'  I  give  him  as  good  as  he 
sint,  an'  'twas  wid  a  bung  starter,  too.  I  brung 
it  back  wid  me  as  a  sooveneer  av  me  travels  in 
France." 

And,  undoing  his  brown  paper  bundle,  McDer 
mott  fished  forth  from  among  his  change  of  socks 
and  shirts  and  underwear  the  bung  starter  of  the 
Hotel  Faugon  and  laid  it  upon  the  bar  for  his 
friend's  inspection.  Something  else  in  the  bundle 
caught  O'Toole's  eye. 

"An'  phwat  is  that  thing  ye  have  there?"  asked 
Tim. 

[85l 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Divil  a  bit  do  I  know  phwat,"  said  McDer- 
mott,  picking  the  article  up  and  tossing  it  care 
lessly  upon  the  bar.  "  'Twas  layin'  by  me  cot  in 
the  hospital,  along  wid  m'  bung  starter  an'  me 
clothes  whin  I  come  to  m'silf,  an'  whin  I  made  me 
sneak  from  that  place  I  brung  it  along." 

It  was  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 


V. — Looney  the  Mutt 


V. — Looney  the  Mutt 


LOONEY  had  but  one  object  in  life,  one  thought, 
one  conscious  motive  of  existence — to  find  Slim 
again.  After  he  found  Slim,  things  would  be  dif 
ferent,  things  would  be  better,  somehow.  Just 
how,  Looney  did  not  know. 

Looney  did  not  know  much,  anyhow.  Likely 
he  would  never  have  known  much,  in  the  most 
favorable  circumstances.  And  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  had  passed  his  life  were  scarcely 
conducive  to  mental  growth.  He  could  remem 
ber,  vaguely,  that  he  had  not  always  been  called 
Looney  Hogan.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he 
was  called  Kid  Hogan.  Something  had  happened 
inside  his  head  one  day,  and  then  there  had  come 
a  period  of  which  he  remembered  nothing  at  all; 
after  that,  when  he  could  remember  again,  he  was 
not  Kid  any  more,  but  Looney.  Perhaps  some  one 
had  hit  him  on  the  head.  People  were  always 
hitting  him,  before  he  knew  Slim.  And  now  that 
Slim  was  gone,  people  were  always  hitting  him 
again.  When  he  was  with  Slim,  Slim  had  not  let 
people  hit  him — often.  So  he  must  find  Slim 
again;  Slim,  who  was  the  only  God  he  had  ever 
known. 

[89] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


In  the  course  of  time  he  became  known,  in  his 
own  queer  world,  from  Baltimore  to  Seattle,  from 
Los  Angeles  to  Boston,  as  Slim's  Lost  Mutt,  or 
as  Looney  the  Mutt.  Looney  did  not  resent  being 
called  a  dog,  particularly,  but  he  never  called  him 
self  "The  Mutt" ;  he  stuck  to  "Looney" ;  Slim  had 
called  him  Looney,  and  Looney  must,  therefore, 
be  right. 

The  humors  of  Looney's  world  are  not,  uni 
formly,  kindly  humors.  Giving  Looney  the  Mutt 
a  "bum  steer"  as  to  Slim's  whereabouts  was  con 
sidered  a  legitimate  jest. 

"Youse  ain't  seen  Slim  Matchett  anywheres?" 
he  would  ask  of  hobo  or  wobbly,  working  stiff  or 
yeggman,  his  faded  pale-blue  eyes  peering  from 
his  weather-worn  face  with  the  same  anxious  in-, 
tensity,  the  same  eager  hope,  as  if  he  had  not 
asked  the  question  ten  thousand  times  before. 

And  the  other  wanderer,  if  he  were  one  that 
knew  of  Looney  the  Mutt  and  Looney's  quest 
would  answer,  like  as  not : 

"Slimmy  de  Match?  Uh-huh !  I  seen  Slim  last 
mont'  in  Chi.  He's  lookin'  fer  youse,  Looney." 

One  day  the  Burlington  Crip,  who  lacked  a  hand, 
and  who  looked  so  mean  that  it  was  of  common 
report  that  he  had  got  sore  at  himself  and  bitten 
it  off,  varied  the  reply  a  bit  by  saying: 

"I  seen  Slim  las'  week,  an'  he  says:  *Where  t* 
hell's  dat  kid  o'  mine?  Youse  ain't  seen  nuttin1  o* 
dat  kid  o'  mine,  has  you,  Crip?  Dat  kid  o'  mine 

give  me  de  slip,  Crip.    He  lammistered,  and  I  ain't 

[90] 


Looney  the  Mutt 


seen  him  since.  If  youse  gets  yer  lamps  on  dat 
kid  o'  mine,  Crip,  give  him  a  wallop  on  his  mush 
fer  me,  an'  tell  him  to  come  an'  find  me  an'  I'm 
gonna  give  him  another  one.'  " 

Looney  stared  and  wondered  and  grieved.  It 
hurt  him  especially  that  Slim  should  think  that  he, 
Looney,  had  run  away  from  Slim;  he  agonized 
anew  that  he  could  not  tell  Slim  at  once  that  such 
was  not  the  truth.  And  he  wondered  and  grieved 
at  the  change  that  must  have  taken  place  in  Slim, 
who  now  promised  him  "a  wallop  on  the  mush." 
For  Slim  had  never  struck  him.  It  was  Slim  who 
had  always  kept  other  people  from  striking  him. 
It  was  Slim  who  had,  upon  occasion,  struck  other 
people  to  protect  him — once,  in  a  hangout  among 
the  lakeside  sand  dunes  south  of  Chicago,  Slim 
had  knifed  a  man  who  had,  by  way  of  jovial  by 
play  to  enliven  a  dull  afternoon,  flung  Looney  into 
the  fire. 

It  never  occurred  to  Looney  to  doubt,  entirely, 
these  bearers  of  misinformation.  He  was  hunting 
Slim,  and  of  course,  he  thought,  Slim  was  hunting 
Looney.  His  nature  was  all  credulity.  Such  mind 
as  the  boy  possessed — he  was  somewhere  in  his 
twenties,  but  had  the  physique  of  a  boy — was 
saturated  with  belief  in  Slim,  with  faith  in  Slim, 
and  he  thought  that  all  the  world  must  admire 
Slim.  He  did  not  see  why  any  one  should  tell  lies 
that  might  increase  Slim's  difficulties,  or  his  own. 

There  was  a  big  red  star  he  used  to  look  at 
[91] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


nights,  when  he  slept  in  the  open,  and  because  it 
seemed  to  him  bigger  and  better  and  more  splendid 
than  any  of  the  other  stars  he  took  to  calling  it 
Slim's  star.  It  was  a  cocky,  confident-looking  star; 
it  looked  as  if  it  would  know  how  to  take  care  of 
itself,  and  Slim  had  been  like  that.  It  looked 
good-natured,  too,  and  Slim  had  been  that  way. 
When  Looney  had  rustled  the  scoffin's  for  Slim, 
Slim  had  always  let  him  have  some  of  the  best 
chow — or  almost  always.  And  he  used  to  talk  to 
that  star  about  Slim  when  he  was  alone.  It  seemed 
sympathetic.  And  although  be  believed  the  hoboes 
were  telling  him  the  truth  when  they  said  that 
they  had  seen  Slim,  it  was  apparent  even  to  his 
intelligence  that  they  had  no  real  sympathy  with 
his  quest. 

Once  he  did  find  a  certain  sympathy,  if  no  great 
understanding.  He  worked  a  week,  one  Spring,  for 
a  farmer  in  Indiana.  The  farmer  wished  to  keep 
him,  for  that  Summer  at  least,  for  Looney  was 
docile,  willing  enough,  and  had  a  natural,  uncon 
scious  tact  with  the  work-horses.  Looney  was 
never  afraid  of  animals,  and  they  were  never 
afraid  of  him.  Dogs  took  to  him,  and  the  instant 
liking  of  dogs  had  often  stood  him  in  good  stead 
in  his  profession. 

"Why  won't  you  stay?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"Slim's  lookin'  fer  me,  somewheres,"  said 
Looney.  And  he  told  the  farmer  about  Slim.  The 
farmer,  having  perceived  Looney's  mental  twi 
light,  and  feeling  kindly  toward  the  creature,  ad- 

[92] 


Looney  the  Mutt 


vanced  an  argument  that  he  thought  might  hold 
him. 

"Slim  is  just  as  likely  to  find  you  if  you  stay  in 
one  place,  as  if  you  go  travelin'  all  over  the  coun 
try,"  he  said. 

aHuh-uh,"  said  Looney.  "He  ain't,  Mister. 
It's  this  way,  Mister:  every  time  I  stop  long  any-, 
wheres,  Slim,  he  passes  me  by." 

And  then  he  continued,  after  a  pause :  "Slim, 
he  was  always  good  to  me,  Mister.  I  kinda  want 
to  be  the  one  that  finds  Slim,  instead  of  just  stayin' 
still  an'  waitin'  to  be  found." 

They  were  standing  in  the  dusk  by  the  barn, 
and  the  early  stars  were  out.  Looney  told  him 
about  Slim's  star. 

"I  want  to  be  the  guy  that  does  the  findin',"  went 
on  Looney  presently,  "because  I  was  the  guy  that 
done  the  losin'.  One  night  they  was  five  or  six 
of  us  layin1  under  a  lot  of  railroad  ties  we  had 
propped  up  against  a  fence  to  keep  the  weather 
off,  an'  we  figgered  on  hoppin'  a  train  fer  Chi 
that  night.  Well,  the  train  comes  along,  but  I'm 
asleep.  See?  The  rest  of  t'  gang  gits  into  an 
empty  in  de  dark,  an'  I  don't  wake  up.  I  s'pose 
Slim  he  t'inks  I'm  wit'  t'  gang,  but  I  don't  wake 
up  under  them  ties  till  mornin'.  I  went  to  Chi 
soon's  I  could,  but  I  ain't  never  glommed  him 
since,  Mister.  I  didn't  find  him  dere.  An'  dat's 
t'  way  I  lost  Slim,  Mister." 

"Maybe,"  suggested  the  farmer,  "he  is  dead." 

"Nit,"  said  Looney.  "He  ain't  dead.  If  Slim 
[93] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


was  croaked  or  anything,  I'd  be  wised  up  to  it. 
Look  at  that  there  star.  Dat  is  Slim's  star,  like 
I  told  youse.  If  Slim  had  been  bumped  off,  or 
anything,  Mister,  that  star  wouldn't  be  shinin' 
that  way,  Mister." 

And  he  went  back  to  his  own  world — his  world 
— which  was  a  succession  of  freight  and  cattle 
cars,  ruinous  sheds  and  shelters  in  dubious  sub 
urbs  near  to  railroad  sidings,  police  stations,  work 
houses,  jails,  city  missions,  transient  hangouts  in 
bedraggled  clumps  of  wood,  improvised  shacks, 
shared  with  others  of  his  kind  in  vacant  lots  in 
sooty  industrial  towns,  chance  bivouacs  amidst 
lumber  piles  and  under  dripping  water  tanks,  lucky 
infrequent  lodgings  in  slum  hotels  that  used  to 
charge  fifteen  cents  for  a  bed  and  now  charge  a 
quarter,  golden  moments  in  vile  barrooms  and 
blind  tigers,  occasional  orgies  in  quarries  or  gravel 
pits  or  abandoned  tin-roofed  tool  houses,  uneasy, 
loiterings  and  interrupted  slumbers  in  urban  parks 
and  the  squares  or  outskirts  of  villages.  Some 
times  he  worked,  as  he  had  with  the  Indiana 
farmer,  with  the  wheat  harvesters  of  the  North 
west,  or  the  snow  shovelers  of  the  metropoli,  or 
the  fruit  gatherers  of  California;  but  more  often 
he  loafed,  and  rustled  grub  and  small  coin  from 
the  charitably  disposed. 

It  all  seemed  the  natural  way  of  life  to  Looney. 
He  could  not  remember  anything  else.  He  viewed 
the  people  of  the  world  who  did  not  live  so,  and 
whom  he  saw  to  be  the  majority,  as  strange,  unac- 

[941 


Looney  the  Mutt 


countable  beings  whom  he  could  never  hope  to 
understand;  he  vaguely  perceived  that  they  were 
stronger  than  he  and  his  ever-hiking  clan,  and  he 
knew  that  they  might  do  unpleasant  things  to  him 
with  their  laws  and  their  courts  and  their  strength, 
but  he  bore  them  no  rancor,  unlike  many  of  his 
associates. 

He  had  no  theories  about  work  or  idleness;  he 
accepted  either  as  it  came;  he  had  little  conscious 
thought  about  anything,  except  finding  Slim  again. 
And  one  thing  worried  him :  Slim,  who  was  sup 
posed  to  be  looking  for  Looney,  even  as  Looney 
was  looking  for  Slim,  left  no  mark.  He  was  for 
ever  looking  for  it,  searching  for  the  traces  of 
Slim's  knife — a  name,  a  date,  a  destination,  a  mes 
sage  bidding  Looney  to  follow  or  to  wait — on 
freight  sheds  and  water  tanks,  and  known  and 
charted  telegraph  poles  and  the  tool  houses  of 
construction  gangs.  But  Slim,  always  just  ahead 
of  him,  as  he  thought,  continually  returning  and 
passing  him,  ever  receding  in  the  Histance,  left  no 
mark,  no  wanderer's  pateran,  behind.  Looney 
left  his  own  marks  everywhere,  but,  strangely 
enough,  it  seemed  that  Slim  never  saw  them. 
Looney  remembered  that  one  time  when  he  and 
Slim  were  together  Slim  had  wished  to  meet  and 
confer  with  the  Burlington  Crip,  and  had  left  word 
to  that  effect,  penciled  and  carved  and  sown  by  the 
speech  of  the  mouth,  from  the  Barbary  Coast  to 
the  Erie  Basin.  And  the  Burlington  Crip,  with 
his  snaggle  teeth  and  his  stump  where  a  hand  had 

[951 


Carter  and  Other  People 


been,  had  joined  them  on  the  Brooklyn  waterfront 
within  two  months.  It  had  been  simple,  and 
Looney  wondered  why  Slim  omitted  this  easy 
method  of  communication.  Perhaps  Slim  was 
using  it  and  Looney  was  not  finding  the  marks. 
He  knew  himself  for  stupid,  and  set  his  failure 
down  to  that,  never  to  neglect  on  Slim's  part.  For 
Slim  was  Slim,  and  Slim  could  do  no  wrong. 

His  habit  of  searching  for  some  scratched  or 
written  word  of  Slim's  became  known  to  his  whole 
section  of  the  underworld,  and  furnished  material 
for  an  elaboration  of  the  standing  jest  at  his  ex 
pense.  When  ennui  descended  upon  some  chance 
gathering  in  one  of  the  transient  hangouts — cara 
vanserai  as  familiar  to  the  loose-foot,  casual 
guests,  from  coast  to  coast,  as  was  ever  the  Black- 
stone  in  Chicago  or  the  Biltmore  in  New  York  to 
those  who  read  this  simple  history — it  was  custom 
ary  for  some  wag  to  say : 

"Looney,  I  seen  a  mark  that  looked  like  Slim's 
mark  on  a  shed  down  in  Alexandria,  Virginny, 
right  by  where  the  Long  Bridge  starts  over  to 
Washington." 

And  it  might  be  that  Looney  would  start  at 
once,  without  a  word,  for  Alexandria.  Therein 
lay  the  cream  of  this  subtle  witticism,  for  its  per 
petrators — in  Looney's  swift  departures. 

Or  it  might  be  that  Looney  would  sit  and  pon 
der,  his  washed-out  eyes  interrogating  the  speaker 
in  a  puzzled  fashion,  but  never  doubting.  And 
then  the  jester  would  say,  perhaps:  "Why  don't 

[96] 


Looney  the  Mutt 


you  get  a  move  onto  you,  Looney?    You're  gonna 
miss  Slim  again." 

And  Looney  would  answer,  perchance:  "Slim, 
he  ain't  there  now.  The'  was  one  of  them  wob- 
blies'  bump-off  men  sayin'  he  seen  Slim  in  Tacoma 
two  weeks  ago,  an'  Slim  was  headin'  this  way. 
I'm  gonna  wait  fer  him  a  while  longer." 

But  he  never  waited  long.  He  could  never  make 
himself.  As  he  had  told  the  Indiana  farmer,  he 
was  afraid  to  wait  long.  It  was  the  Burlington 
Crip  who  had  made  him  afraid  to  do  that.  The 
'Crip  had  told  him  one  time :  "Looney,  Slim  went 
through  here  last  night,  while  youse  was  asleep 
over  on  that  lumber  pile.  I  forgets  youse  is  lookin' 
fer  him  or  I'd  a  tipped  him  off  youse  was  here." 

Slim  had  been  within  a  hundred  yards  of  him, 
and  he  had  been  asleep  and  had  never  known! 
What  would  Slim  think,  if  he  knew  that?  So 
thereafter  he  was  continually  tortured  by  the  fancy 
that  Slim  might  be  passing  him  in  the  night;  or 
that  Slim,  while  he  himself  was  riding  the  rods 
underneath  a  railway  car,  might  be  on  the  blind 
baggage  of  that  very  train,  and  would  hop  off 
first  and  be  missed  again.  From  day  to  day  he 
became  more  muddled  and  perplexed  trying  to 
decide  whether  it  would  be  better  to  choose  this 
route  or  that,  whether  it  would  be  better  to  stop 
here  a  week,  or  go  yonder  with  all  possible  speed. 
And  from  month  to  month  he  developed  more  and 
more  the  questing,  peering,  wavering  manner  of 
the  lost  dog  that  seeks  its  master. 

[97] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Looney  was  always  welcome  in  the  hang-outs 
of  the  wandering  underworld.  Not  only  was  he 
a  source  of  diversion,  a  convenient  butt,  but  few 
could  rustle  grub  so  successfully.  His  meager 
frame  and  his  wistfulness,  his  evident  feebleness 
of  intellect,  drew  alms  from  the  solvent  popula 
tion,  and  Looney  faithfully  brought  his  takings  to 
the  hangouts  and  was  dispatched  again  for  more. 
Servant  and  butt  he  was  to  such  lords  as  the  Bur 
lington  Crip  and  the  English  Basher.  But  he  did 
not  mind  so  long  as  he  was  not  physically  mal 
treated — as  he  often  was.  The  occasional  crimes 
of  his  associates,  the  occasional  connection  of  some 
of  them  with  industrial  warfare  here  and  there, 
Looney  sometimes  participated  in;  but  he  never 
understood.  If  he  were  told  to  do  so  and  so,  for 
the  most  part  he  did  it.  If  he  were  asked  to  do 
too  much,  or  was  beaten  up  for  his  stupidity,  and 
he  was  always  stupid,  he  quietly  slunk  away  at  his 
first  opportunity. 

The  English  Basher  was  a  red-faced  savage  with 
fists  as  hard  and  rough  as  tarred  rope ;  and  he  con 
ceived  the  idea  that  Looney  should  be  his  kid,  and 
wait  upon  him,  even  as  he  had  been  Slim's  kid. 
Looney,  afraid  of  the  man,  for  a  time  seemed  to 
acquiesce.  But  the  Basher  had  reckoned  without 
Looney' s  faculty  for  blundering. 

He  dispatched  Looney  one  day,  ostensibly  to 
bum  a  handout,  but  in  reality  to  get  the  lay  of  a 
certain  house  in  a  suburb  near  Cincinnati,  which 
the  Basher  meditated  cracking  the  next  convenient 

[98] 


Looney  the  Mutt 


night.  Looney  returned  with  the  food  but  without 
the  information.  He  had  been  willing  enough, 
for  he  admired  yeggmen  and  all  their  ways  and 
works,  and  was  withheld  by  no  moral  consider 
ations  from  anything  he  was  asked  to  do;  but  he 
had  bungled.  He  had  been  in  the  kitchen,  he  had 
eaten  his  own  scoffin's  there,  he  had  talked  with 
the  cook  for  twenty  minutes,  he  had  even  brought 
up  from  the  cellar  a  scuttle  of  coal  for  the  kitchen 
range  to  save  the  cook's  back,  but  he  actually  knew 
less  about  that  house,  its  plan,  its  fastenings,  its 
doors  and  basement  windows  than  the  Basher  had 
been  able  to  gather  with  a  single  stroke  of  the  eye 
as  he  loitered  down  the  street. 

"Gripes!  Whadje  chin  about  with  the  kitchen 
mechanic  all  dat  time,  you?"  demanded  the 
Basher. 

"She  was  stringin'  me  along,"  said  Looney 
humbly,  "an*  I  spilled  to  her  about  me  an'  Slim." 

"Slim! yer,  I've  a  mind  t'  croak 

yer!"  cried  the  Basher. 

And  he  nearly  did  it,  knocking  the  boy  down 
repeatedly,  till  finally  Looney  lay  still  upon  the 
ground. 

"  'S'elp  me,"  said  the  Basher,  "I've  a  mind  to 
give  yer  m'  boots!  You  get  up  an'  beat  it!  An' 
if  I  ever  gets  my  lamps  onto  you  again  I  will  croak 
you,  by  Gawd,  an'  no  mistake !" 

Looney  staggered  to  his  feet  and  hobbled  to  a 
safe  distance.  And  then,  spitting  out  a  broken 
tooth,  he  dared  to  mutter:  "If  Slimmy  was  here, 

[99] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


he'd  see  de  color  o'  youse  insides,  Slimmy  would. 
Slimmy,  he  knifed  a  yegg  oncet  wot  done  less'n 
datt'me!" 

It  was  only  a  week  or  two  after  he  left  the 
Basher  that  Looney' s  faith  in  Slim's  star  was  tested 
again.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  brotherhood  were 
gathered  about  a  fire  in  a  gravel  pit  in  northern 
Illinois,  swapping  yarns  and  experiences  and  mak 
ing  merry.  It  was  a  tremendous  fire,  and  lighted 
up  the  hollow  as  if  it  were  the  entrance  to  Ge 
henna,  flinging  the  grotesque  shadows  of  the  men 
against  the  overhanging  embankments,  and  caus 
ing  the  inhabitants  of  a  village  a  mile  or  so  away 
to  wonder  what  farmer's  haystack  was  aflame. 
The  tramps  were  wasting  five  times  the  wood  they 
needed,  after  their  fashion.  They  had  eaten  to 
repletion,  and  they  were  wasting  the  left-over  food 
from  their  evening  gorge;  they  had  booze;  they 
were  smoking;  they  felt,  for  the  hour,  at  peace 
with  the  world. 

"Wot  ever  did  become  of  dat  Slim?"  asked  the 
Burlington  Crip,  who  happened  to  be  of  the  party, 
looking  speculatively  at  Looney.  Even  the  sinis 
ter  Crip,  for  the  nonce,  was  not  toting  with  him 
his  usual  mordant  grouch. 

Looney  was  tending  the  fire,  while  he  listened  to 
tales  of  the  spacious  days  of  the  great  Johnny 
Yegg  himself,  and  other  Titans  of  the  road  who 
have  now  assumed  the  state  of  legendary  heroes; 
and  he  was,  as  usual,  saying  nothing. 

"Slim?     Slimmy  t'  Match  wot  Looney  here's 

[100] 


Looney  the  Mutt,.  , 


been  tailin'  after  fer  so  long?"  said  the  San  Diego 
Kid.  "Slim,  he  was  bumped  off  in  Paterson  t'ree 
or  four  years  ago." 

"He  wasn't  neither,"  spoke  up  Looney.  "Tex, 
here,  seen  him  in  Chi  last  mont'." 

And,  indeed,  Tex  had  told  Looney  so.  But 
now,  thus  directly  appealed  to,  Tex  answered  noth 
ing.  And  for  the  first  time  Looney  began  to  get 
the  vague  suspicion  that  these,  his  friends,  might 
have  trifled  with  him  before.  Certainly  they  were 
serious  now.  He  looked  around  the  sprawled  cir 
cle  and  sensed  that  their  manner  was  somehow 
different  from  the  attitude  with  which  they  had 
usually  discussed  his  quest  for  Slim. 

"Bumped  off?"  said  Tex.     "How?" 

"A  wobbly  done  it,"  said  the  San  Diego  Kid. 
"Slim,  he  was  scabbin'.  Strike-breakin'.  And 
they  was  some  wobblies  there  helpin'  on  the  strike. 
See?  An'  this  wobbly  bumps  Slim  off." 

"He  didn't  neither,"  said  Looney  again. 

"T  hell  he  didn't?  He  said  he  did,"  said  the 
San  Diego  Kid  pacifically.  "Is  a  guy  gonna  say 
he's  bumped  off  a  guy  unless  he's  bumped  him 
off?" 

Looney,  somewhat  shaken,  withdrew  from  the 
group  to  seek  comfort  from  the  constellations; 
and  particularly  from  that  big,  red  star,  the  appar 
ent  king  of  stars,  which  he  had  come  to  think  of 
as  Slim's  star,  and  vaguely,  as  Slim's  mascot.  It 
was  brighter  and  redder  than  ever  that  night, 
Looney  thought,  and  sitting  on  a  discarded  rail- 

[101] 


Carter  and  Other  People 

road  tie  and  staring  at  the  planet,  Looney  gradu 
ally  recovered  his  faith. 

"He  ain't  neither  been  bumped  off,  Slim  ain't," 
he  muttered,  "an*  I'm  gonna  find  him  yet." 

And  Slim  had  not  been  bumped  off,  however 
sincere  the  San  Diego  Kid  may  have  been  in  his 
belief. 

It  was  some  months  later  that  Looney  did  find 
him  in  a  little  city  in  Pennsylvania — or  found  some 
one  that  looked  like  him. 

Looney  had  dropped  from  a  freight  train  early 
in  the  morning,  had  rustled  himself  some  grub, 
had  eaten  two  good  meals  and  had  part  of  a  day's 
sleep,  and  now,  just  as  dark  was  coming  on,  and 
the  street  lamps  were  being  lighted,  was  loafing 
aimlessly  on  the  platform  of  the  railway  depot. 
He  purposed  to  take  a  train  south  that  night,  when 
it  became  so  dark  that  he  could  crawl  into  an  empty 
in  the  yards  without  too  much  danger  of  being 
seen  and  he  was  merely  putting  in  the  time  until 
full  night  came  on. 

While  he  was  standing  idly  so,  an  automobile 
drew  up  beside  the  station  platform  and  an  ele 
gantly  dressed  and  slender  man  of  about  thirty  got 
out.  He  assisted  from  the  car  a  woman  and  a 
small  child,  and  they  made  toward  the  door  of  the 
waiting  room. 

uSlim !"  cried  Looney,  rushing  forward. 

For  this  was  Slim — it  must  be  Slim — it  was 
Slimmy  the  Match  in  every  feature — and  yet,  the 

[102] 


Looney  the  Mutt 


car! — the    clothes — the    woman — the    baby — the 
prosperity Was  it  Slim? 

"Slim!"  cried  Looney  again,  his  heart  leaping 
in  his  meager  frody.  "It's  me,  Slim !  It's  Looney ! 
I've  got  youse  again,  Slim!  Gawd!  I've  found 
yuh!" 

The  woman  hastily  snatched  the  child  up  into 
her  arms,  with  a  suppressed  scream,  and  recoiled. 

The  man  made  no  sound,  but  he,  too,  drew  back 
a  step,  not  seeming  to  see  Looney's  outstretched 
hand. 

But  he  did  see  it — he  saw  more  than  that.  He 
saw,  as  if  they  were  flashed  before  him  at  lightning 
speed  upon  a  cinema  screen,  a  dozen  scenes  of  a 
wild  and  reckless  and  indigent  youth  that  he  had 
thought  was  dead  forever;  he  saw  these  rough 
neck  years  suddenly  leap  alive  and  stalk  toward 
him  again,  toward  him  and  his;  he  saw  his  later 
years  of  industry,  his  hard-won  success,  his  posi 
tion  so  strenuously  battled  for,  his  respectability 
that  was  become  so  dear  to  him,  all  his  house  of 
life  so  laboriously  builded,  crumbling  before  the 
touch  of  this  torn  and  grotesque  outcast  that  con 
fronted  and  claimed  him,  this  wavering,  dusty 
lunatic  whom  he  dimly  remembered.  If  his  wife 
knew — if  her  people  knew — if  the  business  men  of 
this  town  were  to  know 

He  shuddered  and  turned  sick,  and  then  with 
a  sudden  recovery  he  took  his  child  from  its 
mother  and  guided  her  before  him  into  the  waiting 
room. 

[103] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Looney  watched  them  enter,  in  silence.  He 
stood  dazed  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  slowly 
turned  and  walked  down  the  railroad  track  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  town.  There,  upon  a  spot  of  turf 
beside  the  right  of  way,  he  threw  himself  upon  his 
face  and  sobbed  and  moaned,  as  a  broken-hearted 
child  sobs,  as  a  dog  moans  upon  its  master's  grave. 

But  after  a  while  he  looked  up.  Slim's  star 
was  looking  down  at  him,  red  and  confident  and 
heartening  as  ever.  He  gazed  at  it  a  long  time, 
and  then  an  idea  took  form  in  his  ruined  brain 
and  he  said  aloud: 

"Now,  dat  wasn't  really  Slim!  I  been  lookin' 
f er  Slim  so  long  I  t'ink  I  see  Slim  where  he  ain't ! 
Dat  was  jus'  some  guy  wot  looks  like  Slimmy. 
Slimmy,  he  wouldn't  never  of  gone  back  on  an  old 
pal  like  dat!" 

The  rumble  of  an  approaching  train  caught  his 
ears.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  prepared  to  board  it. 

"Slim,  he's  waitin'  fer  me  somewheres,"  he  told 
the  star.  "I  may  be  kinda  looney  about  some 
t'ings,  but  I  knows  Slim,  an'  dey  ain't  no  yellow 
streak  nowheres  in  Slim!" 

And  with  unshaken  loyalty  Looney  the  Mutt 
boarded  the  train  and  set  off  upon  his  endless  quest 
anew. 


VI— Kale 


VI.— Kale 


"SEE  that  old  fellow  there  ?"  asked  Ed  the 
waiter.  "Well,  his  fad  is  money." 

The  old  fellow  indicated — he  must  have  been 
nearly  eighty — sat  eating  corned  beef  and  cabbage 
in  a  little  booth  in  a  certain  delightful,  greasy  old 
chophouse  in  downtown  New  York.  It  was  nearly 
time  to  close  the  chophouse  for  that  day  for  it 
was  almost  eleven  o'clock  at  night;  it  was  nearly 
time  to  close  the  chophouse  forever,  for  it  was  the 
middle  of  June,  1919.  In  a  couple  of  weeks  the 
wartime  prohibition  act  would  be  in  force,  and  Ed 
and  I  had  been  discussing  what  effect  it  would  have 
upon  our  respective  lives. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  place  at  the  time 
except  the  cashier  and  the  old  man  whose  fad  was 
money,  and  so  Ed  had  condescended  toward  me, 
as  a  faithful  customer,  and  was  sitting  down  to 
have  a  drink  with  me. 

"His  fad  is  money?"  I  questioned,  glancing  at 
the  old  gentleman,  who  seemed  to  be  nothing  ex 
traordinary  as  regards  face  or  manner  or  attire. 
He  had  a  long,  bony  New  Englandish  head  and  a 
short,  white,  well-trimmed  beard;  he  was  finishing 
his  nowise  delicate  food  with  gusto.  "I  should 

[107] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


say,"  I  added,  "that  his  fad  was  corned  beef  and 
cabbage." 

/That's  one  of  his  fads,"  admitted  Ed  the 
waiter,  "and  I  don't  know  but  that  it's  as  strong 
in  him  as  his  money  fad.  At  any  rate,  I've  never 
seen  him  without  one  or  the  other  was  near  him, 
and  both  in  large  quantities." 

We  had  been  conversing  in  a  mumble,  so  that 
our  voices  should  not  carry  to  the  old  gentleman. 
And  now  Ed  dropped  his  voice  still  lower  and 
whispered: 

"That's  Old  Man  Singleton." 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  renewed  interest.  Every 
one  knew  who  Old  Man  Singleton  was,  and  many 
persons  liked  to  guess  how  much  he  was  worth. 
Ostensibly  he  had  retired,  leaving  to  his  two  sons 
the  management  of  the  Singleton  banking  business, 
with  its  many  ramifications;  but  actually  he  kept 
his  interest  in  the  concern  and  was  reputed  to  be 
coaching  his  grandsons  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
and  especially  that  part  of  the  world  known  as 
"The  Street." 

Starting  out  as  a  New  England  villager  who 
hated  poverty  because  his  family  had  always 
known  it,  he  had  come  to  New  York  as  a  lad  of 
twenty,  with  red  knitted  mittens  on  his  osseous 
hands,  and  he  had  at  once  removed  the  mittens 
and  put  the  hands  to  work  gathering  money;  it 
was  rumored  that  the  hands  had  never  turned  loose 
any  of  the  garnered  coin;  it  was  even  said  by  some 
persons  that  he  still  had  the  same  pair  of  mittens. 

[108] 


Kale 

The  details  of  his  rise  I  cannot  give;  he  had 
achieved  his  ambition  to  be  one  of  the  very  rich 
men  of  America  because  the  ambition  was  so 
strong  within  him. 

"Of  course  his  fad  is  money,"  I  muttered  to  Ed 
the  waiter.  "Everybody  knows  that  Old  Man 
Singleton's  fad  is  money." 

Ed  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mr.  Singleton 
looked  up  and  motioned  for  his  check.  Ed 
brought  it,  and  gave  the  old  gentleman  his  hat  and 
his  stick  and  his  change. 

"I  hope  everything  was  all  right,  Mr.  Single 
ton,"  said  Ed,  palpably  bidding  for  recognition 
and  a  tip. 

"Eh?"  said  Singleton,  looking  blankly  at  Ed. 
"You  know  me,  hey?  I  don't  recall  you.  Yes, 
everything  was  all  right,  thank  you."  He  gave 
the  waiter  a  dime  and  passed  out,  after  another 
blank,  fumbling  look  at  Ed,  and  a  shake  of  his 
head.  There  was  something  feeble  and  wander 
ing  in  the  old  fellow's  manner;  his  memory  was 
going;  it  was  obvious  that  before  long  the  rest 
of  him  would  follow  his  memory. 

"He  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  go  around  this 
way  alone  at  night,"  murmured  Ed,  watching  the 
door  through  which  he  had  made  his  exit.  "But 
I  suppose  he's  as  bull-headed  as  ever  about  doing 
what  he  pleases,  even  if  his  legs  are  shaky." 

"He  didn't  know  you,"  I  hinted,  for  I  wished 
to  learn  all  that  Ed  knew  about  Old  Man  Single 
ton. 

[109] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Ed  is  a  person  who  has  been  in  the  world  nearly 
fifty  years;  he  has  had  some  very  unusual  acquaint 
ances  and  experiences.  It  is  never  safe  to  predict 
just  what  Ed  will  know  and  what  he  will  not  know. 
One  afternoon,  after  I  had  known  Ed  for  about  a 
year,  I  was  attempting  to  argue  some  scientific 
point  with  a  friend  who  was  lunching  with  me,  and 
Ed,  who  was  waiting  on  us  and  listening,  re 
marked:  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  it  wasn't  in 
The  Descent  of  Man  that  Darwin  said  that;  it  was 
in  The  Origin  of  Species." 

And  yet,  if  you  deduce  from  that  remark  that 
Ed  knows  a  great  deal  about  modern  science,  you 
will  be  mistaken;  as  likely  as  not  he  could  quote 
pages  of  Marcus  Aurelius  to  you,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  might  pronounce  "Euripides"  as  if  the  last 
two  syllables  were  one,  riming  with  "hides" ;  his 
reading,  like  his  life,  has  been  elective. 

"He  doesn't  recall  you,"  I  repeated. 

"And  that's  ingratitude,"  said  Ed,  "if  he  only 
knew  it.  I  saved  the  old  man's  life  once." 

And  Ed  limped  over  to  the  table  and  resumed 
his  seat  opposite  me.  He  has  a  bullet  under  one 
kneecap,  and  at  times  it  makes  him  very  lame.  He 
would  never  tell  me  how  it  came  there ;  to  this  day 
I  do  not  know. 

"From  what  did  you  save  his  life?"  I  asked. 

"From  a  man,"  said  Ed  moodily.  "From  a 
man  who  had  a  notion  to  bean  him  one  night.  And 
to  this  day  I  ask  myself:  'Did  I  do  right,  or  did  I 
do  wrong?' ' 

[no] 


Kale 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  insisted. 

"Drink  up,"  said  Ed,  manipulating  the  Scotch 
bottle  and  the  siphon  of  seltzer.  "This  is  one  of 
the  last  highballs  you'll  ever  have,  unless  you  sneak 
around  and  take  it  on  the  sly.  I  don't  know  that 
I  should  have  another  one  myself;  it  settles  in  this 
damned  knee  of  mine  if  I  get  a  little  too  much." 

"Tell  me  when,  where  and  how  you  knew  Old 
Man  Singleton,"  I  demanded  again. 

"This  knee  of  mine,"  went  on  Ed,  disregarding 
me,  "is  a  hell  of  a  handicap.  We  were  talking 
about  prohibition — what's  prohibition  going  to  do 
to  me?  Hey?  It  puts  me  out  of  a  job  in  a  bar 
room  like  this  the  first  thing.  And  what  else  can 
I  do?  With  this  game  leg,  you  can  see  me  going 
on  the  stage  as  a  Russian  dancer,  can't  you?  Or 
digging  trenches  to  lay  gas  pipes  in,  or  carrying  a 
hod?  Huh?  And  I  can't  even  get  a  job  in  a  swell 
restaurant  uptown;  they  don't  want  any  game- 
legged  waiters  sticking  around,  falling  over  the 
chairs.  This  was  about  the  only  kind  of  a  joint 
and  the  only  kind  of  a  job  I  was  fit  for,  this  chop- 
house  thing  down  here,  and  it's  going  to  close  in 
two  weeks.  What  then?  Be  somebody's  house 
maid?  I  can't  see  it.  I  don't  wish  anybody  any 
bad  luck,  but  I  hope  the  guy  that  put  over  this 
prohibition  thing  gets  stiff  in  all  his  joints  and 
lives  forever." 

I  sympathized  and  waited,  and  finally  he  began. 

"Old  Man  Singleton's  fad,"  said  Ed,  "as  I  re- 


Carter  and  Other  People 


marked  before,  is  money.  And  as  you  remarked, 
another  of  his  fads  is  corned  beef  and  cabbage — 
especially  cabbage.  He  will  eat  corned  beef  with 
his  cabbage,  and  like  it;  or  he  will  eat  pork  with 
his  cabbage,  and  like  it;  or  he  will  eat  cabbage 
without  either ;  it  is  the  cabbage  he  likes — or  kale. 
In  fact,  you  could  reduce  his  two  fads  to  one,  and 
say  what  he  likes  is  kale — kale  in  the  slang  sense 
of  money,  and  kale  that  is  cabbage.  And  all  his 
life  he  has  been  stuffing  himself  with  kale. 

"His  fad  is  kale  that  he  can  see  and  feel  and 
handle  and  show  and  carry  about  with  him.  Not 
merely  money  in  the  bank  and  stocks  and  bonds 
and  property  and  real  estate,  but  actual  cash.  He 
likes  to  carry  it  with  him,  and  he  does  carry  it  with 
him.  I  guess  he  likes  the  feel  of  it  in  his  billfolder, 
and  the  thought  that  he  has  got  it  on  him — on  him, 
the  poor  boy  that  came  out  of  New  England  with 
the  red  knitted  mittens  on  that  everybody  has 
heard  so  much  about.  I  can  understand  the  way 
he  feels  about  it;  with  a  folder  full  of  thousand- 
dollar  and  ten-thousand-dollar  bills  he  feels  safe, 
somehow;  feels  like  he'll  never  have  to  go  back  to 
that  little  New  England  town  and  saw  cordwood 
and  shovel  snow  again. 

"He's  got  it  on  him  now,  that  folder,  and  I'll 
bet  you  on  it.  That's  what  I  meant  when  I  said 
it  wasn't  safe  for  him  to  be  trotting  about  this  way 
after  night.  For  if  I  know  it,  it  stands  to  reason 
others  know  it,  too. 

"What  you  want  to  know  is,  how  I  know  it. 
[112] 


Kale 

Well,  I  was  not  always  what  I  am  now.  Once  I 
was  quite  a  bird  and  wore  dress  suits  and  went  to 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  and  listened  to  Caruso  as 
he  jumped  his  voice  from  peak  to  peak.  Yes,  sir, 
I  know  every  darned  acoustic  in  that  place !  They 
weren't  my  dress  suits  that  I  wore,  but  they  fit  me. 
Once  I  moved  in  the  circles  of  the  idle  rich,  though 
they  didn't  know  it,  and  helped  'em  spend  the  un 
earned  increment  they  wrung  from  the  toil  of  the 
downtrodden  laboring  man. 

"Once,  to  come  down  to  brass  tacks,  I  was  a  but 
ler's  companion.  It  is  an  office  you  won't  find 
listed  in  the  social  directory,  but  it  existed,  for 
me  at  least.  The  butler  in  the  case  was  a  good 
friend  of  mine  by  the  name  of  Larry  Hodgkins, 
and  being  part  Irish,  he  was  an  ideal  English  but 
ler.  Larry  and  his  mother  were  in  the  employ  of 
the  Hergsheimers,  a  wealthy  Jewish  family — you 
know  who  they  are  if  you  read  the  financial  pages 
or  the  Sunday  supplements.  Mrs.  Hodgkins  was 
the  housekeeper  and  Larry  was  the  butler,  and 
when  the  Hergsheimers  were  traveling  Larry  and 
his  mother  stayed  in  the  New  York  house  as  care 
takers  and  kept  things  shipshape.  And  let  me 
give  you  a  tip,  by  the  way:  if  you  ever  take  a  notion 
to  quit  the  writing  game  and  go  into  domestic 
service,  plant  yourself  with  a  rich  Hebrew  family. 
They  want  things  done  right,  but  they  are  the 
most  liberal  people  on  earth,  especially  to  Gentile 
servants. 

"This  Hergsheimer  was  Jacob  Hergsheimer, 
[113] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


and  he  was  in  right  socially  in  New  York,  as  well 
as  financially;  he  had  put  himself  across  into  the 
big  time  socially  because,  if  you  ask  me,  he  be 
longed  there;  all  the  Hergsheimers  didn't  get 
across,  but  this  one  did.  His  New  York  house  is 
uptown,  between  the  sixties  and  the  eighties,  east 
of  the  Park,  and  he  wants  it  kept  so  he  can  drop 
into  it  with  his  family  and  a  flock  of  servants  at 
any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  from  any  part  of  the 
earth,  without  a  minute's  notice,  and  give  a  dinner 
party  at  once,  if  he  feels  like  it,  and  he  frequently 
feels  like  it. 

"It  was  Mrs.  Hodgkins's  and  Larry's  job  to 
keep  the  fire  from  going  out  in  the  boilers,  so  to 
speak,  and  a  head  of  steam  on,  so  that  the  domestic 
ship  could  sail  in  any  direction  on  receipt  of  orders 
by  wire,  wireless  or  telephone.  They  were  perma 
nent  there,  but  Jake  Hergsheimer  and  his  family, 
as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  never  got  more  than 
an  average  of  about  three  months'  use  a  year  out 
of  that  mansion. 

uThis  time  I  am  speaking  of  was  nearly  ten 
years  ago.  I  was  a  waiter  in  an  uptown  restau 
rant,  and  both  my  legs  were  good  then;  Larry  and 
I  were  old  pals.  The  Jake  Hergsheimers  were 
sailing  around  the  world  in  a  yacht,  and  would  be 
at  it  for  about  a  year,  as  far  as  Larry  knew,  and 
he  asked  me  up  to  live  with  him.  I  accepted ;  and 
believe  me,  the  eight  months  I  put  in  as  Jake 
Hergsheimer's  guest  were  some  eight  months. 
Not  that  Jake  knew  about  it;  but  if  he  had  known 

[114] 


Kale 

it,  he  wouldn't  have  cared.    This  Jake  was  a  real 
human  being. 

"And  his  clothes  fit  me;  just  as  if  I  had  been 
measured  for  them.  He  had  what  you  might  call 
an  automatic  tailor,  Jake  did.  Every  six  weeks, 
rain  or  shine,  that  tailor  delivered  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  to  the  Hergsheimer  house,  and  he  sent  in 
his  bill  once  a  year,  so  Larry  the  butler  told  me. 
Some  people  go  away  and  forget  to  stop  the  milk; 
and  when  Jake  sailed  for  the  other  side  of  the 
world  he  forgot  to  tell  anybody  to  stop  the  tailor. 
Larry  didn't  feel  as  if  it  were  any  part  of  his 
duty  to  stop  him ;  for  Larry  liked  that  tailor.  He 
made  Larry's  clothes,  too. 

"And  I  didn't  see  where  it  was  up  to  me  to  pro 
test.  As  I  said,  Jake's  garments  might  have  been 
made  for  me.  In  fact,  a  great  many  of  them  were 
made  for  me.  There  were  at  least  fifteen  suits  of 
clothes  that  had  never  been  worn  in  that  house, 
made  to  my  measure  and  Jake's,  when  I  became 
butler's  companion  in  the  establishment,  and  they 
kept  right  on  coming.  Also,  there  was  a  standing 
order  for  orchestra  seats  at  the  Metropolitan. 
Jake  had  a  box  every  second  Thursday,  or  some 
thing  like  that,  but  when  he  really  wanted  to  hear 
the  music  and  see  the  show  'he  usually  sat  in  the 
orchestra.  Not  only  did  his  business  suits  fit  me, 
but  his  dress  clothes  fit  me,  too. 

"I  used  to  go  often,  with  a  lady's  maid  that  had 
the  same  access  to  clothing  as  I  did.  She  was  part 
of  a  caretaking  staff  also.  Being  a  writing  person, 

["Si 


Carter  and  Other  People 


you  have,  of  course,  only  viewed  New  York's  so 
ciety  and  near-society  from  the  outside,  and  no 
doubt  you  have  been  intimidated  by  the  haughty 
manners  of  the  servants.  Well,  when  you  get  close 
to  swells  and  really  know  them  personally,  you 
will  find  they  are  human,  too. 

UA  butler  on  duty  is  a  swelled-up  proposition, 
because  he  has  to  be  that  way.  But  take  him  as 
you  find  him  among  his  peers,  and  he  quits  acting 
like  the  Duke  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  is  real 
sociable.  This  Larry  person,  for  instance,  could 
distend  himself  like  a  poisoned  pup  and  make  a 
timid  millionaire  feel  like  the  sleeves  of  his  under 
shirt  must  be  showing  below  his  cuffs;  but  in  our 
little  select  circle  Larry  was  the  life  of  the  party. 

"Being,  as  I  said  before,  an  outsider,  you  likely 
don't  realize  how  many  of  those  big  swell  million 
aires'  cribs  uptown  are  in  the  hands  of  caretakers 
like  Larry  and  his  mother  and  me  the  best  part  of 
the  year.  Well,  they  are;  and  there's  a  social  life 
goes  on  in  them  that  don't  ever  get  into  the  papers. 
The  parties  we  had  that  year  in  Jake's  house  would 
have  done  Jake  himself  good,  if  Jake  could  have 
got  an  invitation  to  them.  But  Jake  was  absent, 
though  his  cellar  and  his  grocers  were  at  our  ser 
vice;  and  he  never  questioned  a  bill,  Larry  said. 
There  were  twelve  or  fifteen  hand-picked  servants 
in  our  little  social  circle  that  year,  and  before  I 
left  there  I  could  begin  to  understand  how  these 
debutantes  feel  at  the  end  of  the  season — sort  of 

[n6] 


Kale 

tired  and  bored  and  willing  to  relax  and  go  in  for 
work  and  rest  and  athletics  for  a  change. 

"I  had  only  been  butler's  companion  for  a  few 
weeks  when  Old  Man  Singleton  dropped  in  one 
evening — yes,  sir,  Old  Lemuel  Singleton  himself. 
He  came  to  see  the  butler's  mother,  Mrs.  Hodg- 
kins.  He  had  known  her  a  good  many  years  be 
fore,  when  he  was  wearing  those  red  mittens  and 
sawing  wood  up  in  that  New  England  town  and 
she  was  somebody's  Irish  cook.  And  he  had  run 
across  her  again,  after  he  became  a  millionaire, 
down  here  in  New  York  City.  He  was  tickled  to 
see  her,  and  he  didn't  care  a  darn  if  she  was  Jake 
Hergsheimer's  housekeeper.  She  could  cook  cab 
bage  and  kale  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world, 
and  he  used  to  come  and  sit  with  her,  and  talk 
about  that  little  old  town  up  there,  and  indulge 
in  his  favorite  dissipation. 

"Old  Man  Singleton  has  had  what  you  call  the 

I  social  entree  in  New  York  for  a  good  many  years; 

|  for  so  long  that  some  of  his  children,  and  all  his 

*  grandchildren,  were  born  with  it.     But  he  never 

|  took  it  very  seriously  himself.     He  has  been  an 

j  in-and-outer,   you   might  say.      If  he   saw   Mrs. 

!  Hodgkins  around  Jake's  house,  he  would  call  her 

Mary  and  ask  her  how  folks  were  up  home  in 

front  of  Jake  and  his  wife  and  a  whole  bunch  of 

guests,  just  as  soon  as  not. 

"And  his  sons  and  his  daughters  and  his  grand 
children  never  could  get  him  out  of  those  ways; 
he  always  was  bull-headed  about  doing  what  he 

[117] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


pleased,  so  Mrs.  Hodgkins  told  me,  and  he  always 
will  be.  And  the  old  lady  liked  to  see  him  and 
chin  with  him  and  cook  for  him;  and  believe  me, 
she  was  some  cook  when  she  set  herself  to  it.  Not 
merely  kale,  but  everything.  She  didn't  cook  for 
the  Hergsheimers — they  had  a  chef  for  that — but 
they  missed  it  by  not  having  her.  Victuals  was 
old  Mary's  middle  name,  and  she  could  rustle  up 
some  of  the  best  grub  you  ever  threw  your  lip 
over. 

"At  first,  Old  Man  Singleton  and  Mrs.  Hodg 
kins  didn't  mix  much  with  us  younger  folks  when 
we  pulled  a  party.  It  wasn't  that  we  were  too 
aristocratic  for  them,  for  off  duty,  as  I  said  be 
fore,  butlers  and  other  swells  can  be  as  easy  and 
jolly  as  common  people.  But  they  seemed  too 
antiquated,  if  you  get  me;  they  were  living  too 
much  in  the  past. 

"And  then,  one  night,  I  discovered  what  Old 
Man  Singleton's  fad  was — kale.  Money.  Big 
money.  Big  money  on  his  person.  It  was  this 
way:  Larry  and  I  wanted  to  go  downtown  and 
have  a  little  fun,  but  neither  of  us  had  any  cash 
in  hand.  Larry  had  a  check  for  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  which  Jake  Hergsheimer  had  sent 
him,  but  all  the  tradesmen  we  knew  were  closed 
at  that  hour,  and  there  wasn't  any  way  to  cash  it, 
unless  Old  Man  Singleton  could. 

*  'Mr.  Singleton,'  says  Larry  to  the  old  man, 
who  was  sitting  down  to  a  mess  of  pork  and  kale 

[n8] 


Kale 

with  Mrs.  Hodgkins,   'maybe  you  can  cash  this 
for  me.'    And  he  handed  him  the  check. 

"The  old  man  stopped  eating  and  put  his  glasses 
on  and  pulled  a  billfolder  out  of  his  pocket,  with 
a  kind  of  pleased  smile  on  his  face. 

"  'Let  me  see/  he  says,  taking  out  the  bills,  and 
running  them  over  with  his  fingers;  'let  me  see.' 

"I  nearly  dropped  dead.  There  wasn't  a  bill  in 
there  of  lower  denomination  than  one  thousand 
dollars;  and  most  of  them  were  ten-thousand-dol 
lar  bills. 

"  'No,  Larry/  says  the  old  man,  Tm  afraid  I 
can't,  afraid  I  can't — haven't  got  the  change.' 

"And  while  we  stood  there  and  looked,  he 
smoothed  and  patted  those  bills,  and  folded  and 
refolded  them,  and  then  put  them  back  into  his 
Docket,  and  patted  the  pocket. 

'  'Mary/  he  says  to  the  old  woman  with  a  grin, 
that's  quite  a  lot  of  money  for  little  Lem  Single 
ton  to  be  carrying  around  in  his  pocket,  isn't  it?J 
"  'It  is  that,  Lemuel/  said  the  old  lady,  'and  I 
should  think  you'd  be  afraid  of  leaving  it  out  of 
the  bank.' 

"  'Well,  Mary/  says  the  old  man,  'I  kind  o'  like 
to  have  it  around  me  all  the  time — uh — huh!  a 
little  bit  where  I  can  put  my  hands  on  it,  all  the 
time.  I  used  to  carry  gold;  but  I  gave  that  up; 
it's  too  heavy,  for  what  it's  worth.  But  I  like  it, 
Mary;  I  used  to  look  at  that  gold  and  say  to  my 
self,  "Well,  there's  one  thing  you  got,  Lem  Sin 
gleton,  they  never  thought  you'd  get  when  you  left 

[119] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


home  I  And  they  aren't  going  to  take  it  away  from 
you,  either!"  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could 
make  paper  seem  as  real  to  me  as  gold.  But  it 

does  now.' 

"And  what  does  the  old  bird  do  but  take  it  out 
of  his  pocket  again  and  crinkle  it  through  his  fin 
gers  and  smooth  it  out  again  and  pet  it  and  do 
everything  but  kiss  it.  Larry  and  I  stood  looking 
at  him  with  our  eyes  sticking  out,  and  he  looked 
at  us  and  laughed.  It  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden 
that  he  liked  to  come  where  we  servants  were  be 
cause  he  could  pull  that  kind  of  thing  in  front  of 
us,  but  that  he  was  sort  of  lost  among  the  swell- 
society  bunch  because  he  didn't  dare  pull  it  there 
and  didn't  feel  so  rich  among  them. 

"  'My  God,  Larry,'  I  said,  when  we  were  out 
side  the  house,  'did  you  notice  how  much  kale  the 
old  man  had  there?' 

"  'Uh-huh,'  said  Larry.  'Mother  always  cooks 
a  lot  for  him.' 

"  'Wake  up,  Stupid,'  I  said.  'I  don't  mean  cab 
bage.  I  mean  money.  There  must  have  been 
nearly  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  that  roll !' 

"  'He  always  has  around  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  on  him,  at  least,'  says  Larry.  'And  I've 
seen  him  flash  as  high  as  a  quarter  of  a  million.' 

"  'Well,'  I  says,  'something  ought  to  be  done 
about  it.' 

"  'What  do  you  mean,  Ed?'  says  he. 

"  'Oh,  nothing,'  I  said. 

"We  walked  over  to  get  the  L  train  downtown, 

[120] 


Kale 

saying  nothing,  and  then  finally  Larry  remarked: 

"  'Electricity  is  a  great  thing,  Ed.' 

"  'I  never  said  it  wasn't/  says  I. 

"  'It's  a  great  thing,'  says  Larry,  'but  when  you 
sit  on  it,  sit  on  it  right.  For  instance,  I'd  a  darned 
sight  rather  sit  in  one  of  these  electric  trains  than 
in  that  electric  chair  up  at  Sing  Sing.' 

"  'Who  said  anything  about  an  electric  chair?' 
I  asked  him. 

"  'Nobody  said  anything,'  says  Larry,  'but 
you're  thinking  so  darned  loud  I  can  get  you.' 

"  'Piffle,  peanuts  and  petrification,'  I  said. 
'Take  care  of  your  own  thoughts,  and  I'll  skim 
the  fat  off  of  mine  myself.' 

"Well,  as  I  said,  after  that  we  got  better  ac 
quainted,  the  old  man  and  I.  I  paid  more  atten 
tion  to  him.  He  interested  me  more.  I've  always 
been  interested  in  science  of  all  kinds,  and  the 
year  I  spent  in  Jake  Hergsheimer's  house  I  cut 
the  leaves  of  a  lot  of  books  in  his  library  and  gave 
them  the  once  over.  I  was  always  interested  in 
psychology,  even  before  the  word  got  to  be  a 
headliner  in  the  Sunday  supplements,  and  I  took 
a  good  deal  of  pleasure  that  winter  trying  to  get 
inside  of  Old  Man  Singleton's  mind.  I  must  say, 
I  never  got  very  far  in,  at  that.  My  general  con 
clusion  at  the  end  is  what  it  was  at  the  beginning — 
his  fad  is  kale. 

"And  he  loved  to  show  it,  you  could  see  that. 
Not  that  he  pulled  it  every  time  he  happened  to 
be  at  one  of  our  parties.  Often  he  would  drop 

[121] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


in  that  winter  from  some  swell  social  event  at  one 
of  the  big  houses  uptown,  where  he  had  been  a 
guest,  and  eat  some  of  old  Mary's  chow,  and  never 
intimate  by  word  or  look  that  he  had  all  that  kale 
on  him.  And  then  again  he'd  come  among  us, 
diked  out  in  the  soup  and  fish,  and  flash  the  roll, 
for  no  other  reason  that  I  know  except  he  enjoyed 
seeing  us  get  the  blind  staggers,  which  we  always 
did.  And  then  he'd  fuss  with  it  and  pet  it  and  go 
into  a  dream  over  it,  and  wake  up  again  and  grin 
and  talk  about  life  with  old  Mary.  And  they 
agreed  about  life;  you  never  heard  two  more 
moral  persons  exchange  views.  It  was  sometimes 
as  good  as  a  Sunday-school  to  listen  to  them  for 
half  an  hour. 

"One  night,  when  they  had  been  gassing  for  a 
while,  they  sort  of  got  my  goat,  and  I  said  to 
him: 

"  'Mr.  Singleton,  does  it  ever  strike  you  as  a 
little  peculiar  that  you  should  have  so  much  money 
and  so  many  other  people,  such  as  myself,  none 
at  all?' 

"  'No,  Ed,'  he  says.  'No,  it  doesn't.  That's 
the  Lord's  way,  Ed  I  Money  is  given  as  a  sacred 
trust  by  the  Lord  to  them  that  are  best  fitted  to 
have  and  to  hold.' 

"  'Meaning,'  I  asked  him,  'that  if  you  were  ever 
to  let  loose  of  any  of  it,  it  might  work  harm  in  the 
world?' 

"He  chewed  over  that  for  quite  a  while,  as  if 
he  saw  something  personal  in  it,  and  he  gave  me  a 

[122] 


Kale 

ten-dollar  bill  for  a  Christmas  present.  He  isn't 
as  stingy  as  some  people  say  he  is;  he  just  looks 
so  stingy  that  if  he  was  the  most  liberal  man  on 
earth  he  would  get  the  reputation  of  being  stingy. 

"The  lady's  maid  that  I  used  to  go  to  the  opera 
with  quit  me  a  little  while  after  Christmas.  She 
and  I  were  walking  around  the  promenade  between 
the  acts  one  night  at  the  Metropolitan  and  Larry 
was  with  us,  when  a  fellow  stopped  Larry  and 
spoke  to  him.  I  could  see  the  guy  looking  at  the 
girl  and  me  as  he  and  Larry  talked.  Later,  Larry 
told  me  that  it  was  one  of  Jake  Hergsheimer's 
friends,  and  he  had  been  a  little  bit  surprised  to 
see  Larry  at  the  opera  all  diked  out,  and  he  had 
wanted  to  know  who  the  girl  was. 

"Well,  anyhow,  she  never  went  to  the  opera 
with  me  after  that;  but  a  few  weeks  later  I  saw 
her  at  a  cabaret  with  Jake's  friend.  It  was  a 
grief  to  me;  but  I  got  into  some  real  trouble, 
or  let  it  get  into  me,  about  the  same  time,  and  that 
helped  take  the  sting  off.  I  had  once  been  mar 
ried — but  there's  no  use  going  into  all  that.  Any- 
How,  when  the  marriage  kind  o'  wore  off,  my  own 
folks  took  my  wife's  side  of  the  case  and  she  went 
to  live  with  them.  My  old  dad  was  sick,  and  they 
needed  money,  and  my  wife  wrote  to  me  that  she 
was  willing  to  let  bygones  be  bygones  and  accept 
some  money  from  me,  and  that  my  parents  felt  the 
same  way,  and  there  was  a  kid,  too,  that  my  folks 
were  bringing  up. 

"Well,  I  was  desperate  for  some  way  to  get 
[123] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


hold  of  some  cash  and  send  to  them.  In  the  end, 
I  took  one  of  Jake  Hergsheimer's  silver  vases  and 
hocked  it  and  sent  the  money,  and  got  it  out  of 
hock  two  or  three  months  later;  but  in  the  mean 
time  there  was  a  spell  when  I  was  so  hard  pressed 
it  looked  to  me  like  I  would  actually  have  to  do 
something  dishonest  to  get  that  money. 

"One  night,  before  Jake  Hergsheimer  came  to 
my  rescue  and  lent  me  that  silver  vase,  if  you  want 
to  call  it  that,  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  house  think 
ing  what  a  failure  in  life  I  was,  and  how  rotten  it 
was  to  have  a  wife  and  kid  and  parents  all  set 
against  me,  and  drinking  some  of  Jake's  good 
booze,  and  getting  more  and  more  low  in  my  mind, 
when  there  came  a  ring  at  the  front  doorbell.  The 
butler  was  out,  and  old  Mary  was  asleep  way  up 
in  the  top  of  the  house,  at  the  back,  and  wouldn't 
hear. 

"  Til  bet/  I  said  to  myself,  'that's  Old  Man 
Singleton  nosing  around  for  his  cabbage.'  And  I 
made  up  my  mind  I  wouldn't  let  him  in — he  could 
ring  till  he  froze  to  death  on  the  front  steps,  and 
I  wouldn't.  It  was  a  blustery,  snowy  January 
night,  with  new  snow  over  the  old  ice  underneath, 
and  I  says  to  myself,  'It's  a  wonder  the  old  coot 
don't  slip  down  and  bust  some  of  those  big  New 
England  bones  of  his.  And  I  wouldn't  care  much 
if  he  did.' 

"But  he  kept  on  ringing,  and  finally  I  thought 
I'd  better  go  and  let  him  in.  I  didn't  have  any 
ulterior  notions  when  I  went  up  the  stairs  from  the 

[124! 


Kale 

servants'  dining  room  and  made  for  the  front  door. 
But  the  minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  him  I  thought 
of  all  that  kale  in  his  pocket. 

"I  opened  the  front  door,  but  outside  of  that 
was  an  iron  grille.  It  had  a  number  of  fastenings, 
but  the  final  one  was  a  short,  heavy  iron  bar  that 
lay  in  two  sockets,  one  on  each  side  of  the  open 
ing. 

"I  lifted  the  bar  and  swung  the  grille  open. 

"  'Ha !  Hum  !'  said  he,  and  sneezed.  'It's  you, 
Ed,  is  it?' 

"And,  snuffing  and  sneezing,  he  passed  in  front 
of  me. 

"And  as  he  passed  by  me  that  bar  said  some 
thing  to  my  hand.  And  the  hand  raised  up.  It 
wasn't  any  of  my  doings,  it  was  all  the  hand  and 
the  bar.  It  raised  up,  that  bar  did,  right  behind 
the  old  man's  head.  He  stopped  just  outside  the 
front  door  and  flapped  his  big  bony  feet  on  a  rug 
that  was  there,  to  get  the  snow  off  his  shoes,  and 
while  he  flapped  and  sneezed  that  bar  was  right 
over  the  old  man's  brain-box. 

>;  'Well,'  I  said  to  myself,  'here  is  your  chance 
to  be  an  honest  man  and  a  prosperous  man,  re 
united  with  your  wife  and  your  kid  and  your  folks 
at  home,  and  not  have  to  borrow  anything  from 
Jake  Hergsheimer's  collection — just  one  little  tap 
on  the  old  man's  head,  and  down  he  goes,  and  he's 
got  anywhere  from  one  hundred  thousand  to  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  his  clothes.' 

"  'Yes,'  said  myself  to  me,  'one  little  tap,  and 
[123! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


maybe  you  kill  him.     What  then?     The  electric 
chair,  huh?' 

"'Hell!'  I  said  to  myself.  Take  a  chance! 
The  old  man  has  so  much  money  that  what  he  has 
in  his  pocket  means  nothing  to  him  one  way  or 
another.  Larry's  gone  till  morning,  and  the  old 
woman  won't  wake  for  a  long  time.  It  means  a 
little  bit  of  a  headache  for  Old  Lemuel  here,  and 
it  means  your  chance  to  lead  an  honest  life  here 
after  and  be  a  useful  citizen  and  take  care  of  those 
you  have  been  neglecting.' 

"  'Yes,'  said  myself  to  me,  'it's  more  moral  to 
do  it,  and  make  your  life  over,  but  you  never  have 
been  one  for  morality  in  the  past.  Besides,  you'd 
kill  him.' 

"And  I  might  have  killed  him,  boss.  I  wasn't 
sure  of  it  then,  but  I've  been  sure  of  it  since  then. 
I  was  that  strung  up  that  I  would  have  hit  too 
hard. 

"And  yet,  I  might  not  have  done  so!  I  might 
have  hit  him  just  enough  to  put  him  out  and  make 
my  get-away,  and  I  might  have  led  an  honest  life 
since  then. 

"But  at  the  moment  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  saw,  all 
of  a  sudden,  something  funny.  I  saw  the  old  man 
stamping  his  feet  and  getting  the  snow  off,  and  I 
thought  of  him  as  a  dead  man,  and  I  says  to  my 
self :  'How  damned  funny  for  a  dead  man  to  stamp 
the  snow  off  his  feet!'  And  I  laughed. 

"  'Heh?  Heh?  What  did  you  say,  Ed?'  says 
the  old  man,  and  turns  around. 

[126] 


Kale 

"I  dropped  the  iron  bar  to  my  side,  and  that 
dead  man  came  up  out  of  the  grave. 

"  'Nothing,  Mr.  Singleton/  I  said.  'I  was  just 
going  to  say,  go  on  in,  and  I'll  get  a  brush  and 
clean  the  snow  off  of  you/ 

"I  said  I  saved  his  life  from  a  man  one  time. 
Well,  I  was  the  man  I  saved  his  life  from. 

"He  went  on  in,  and  I  barred  the  grille  and 
locked  the  door,  and  we  went  on  down  to  the  din 
ing  room.  I  was  shaking,  and  still  I  wasn't  easy 
in  my  mind.  I  told  him  there  wasn't  anybody 
home  but  me,  and  he  said  he'd  take  a  drop  of 
Jake's  brandy.  And  while  I  was  opening  a  bottle 
of  it  for  him,  what  does  he  do  but  pull  out  that 
billfolder. 

"  Tor  God's  sake,  Mr.  Singleton,'  I  said,  turn 
ing  weak  and  sitting  down  in  a  chair  all  of  a  sud 
den,  'put  that  money  up.' 

"He  sat  there  and  sipped  his  brandy  and  talked, 
but  I  didn't  hear  what  he  was  saying.  I  just 
looked  at  him,  and  kept  saying  to  myself,  should 
I  have  done  it?  Or  should  I  have  let  him  go 
by? 

"Boss,  that  was  nearly  ten  years  ago,  and  I've 
been  asking  myself  that  question  from  time  to 
time  ever  since.  Should  I  have  done  it?  Was  it 
moral  to  refuse  that  chance  to  make  my  life  over 
again?  You  know  me,  kid.  You  know  some  of 
me,  at  least.  You  know  I  don't  hold  much  by 
morals.  If  I  was  to  tell  you  how  I  got  that  bullet 
under  my  kneecap,  you'd  know  me  better  than 

[127] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


you  do.  If  I  had  hit  him  just  right  and  made  my 
get-away,  I  would  have  led  a  different  life. 

"And  I  wouldn't  now  be  waiting  for  my  death 
sentence.  For  that's  practically  what  this  prohi 
bition  thing  means  to  me.  I  can't  work  at  any 
thing  but  this.  And  this  is  through  with.  And 
I'm  through  with.  I'm  a  bum  from  now  on. 
There's  no  use  kidding  myself;  I'm  a  bum. 

"And  yet,  often,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  do  it." 

Ed  brooded  in  silence  for  a  while. 

And  then  I  said,  "It's  strange  he  didn't  know 
you." 

"It's  been  ten  years,"  said  Ed,  "and  you  saw 
that  the  old  man's  got  to  the  doddering  stage. 
He  likely  wouldn't  know  his  own  children  if  he 
didn't  see  them  every  day  or  two." 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  "that  the  old  man  feels  he 
is  ending  his  days  in  a  very  satisfactory  manner — 
the  national  prohibition  thing  triumphant,  and  all 
that." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Ed. 

"Don't  you  know?"  I  said.  "Why,  Old  Man 
Singleton,  it  is  said,  helped  to  finance  the  fight, 
and  used  his  money  and  his  influence  on  other  big 
money  all  over  the  country  in  getting  next  to  doubt 
ful  politicians  and  putting  the  thing  through  the 
state  legislatures.  I  don't  mean  there  was  any 
thing  crooked  about  it  anywhere,  but  he  was  one 
of  the  bunch  that  represented  organized  power, 
and  put  the  stunt  across  while  the  liquor  interests 

[128] 


Kale 

were  still  saying  national  prohibition  could  never 


come." 


"The  hell  he  did!"  said  Ed.  "I  didn't  know 
he  was  mixed  up  with  it.  I  never  saw  him  take  a 
drink,  now  that  I  remember,  except  the  brandy  on 
the  night  I  saved  his  life." 

"Old  Man  Singleton,"  I  said,  "is  credited  with 
having  had  more  to  do  with  it  than  any  other  one 
person,  by  those  who  are  on  the  inside." 

"The  old  coot!"  said  Ed.  And  then  added 
wryly:  "I  hope  he  gets  as  stiff  in  his  knee  joint 
as  I  am  and  lives  forever !  He's  made  a  bum  of 
me!" 

It  was  three  or  four  weeks  after  my  talk  with 
Ed  that  I  read  in  the  papers  of  a  peculiar  acci 
dent  of  which  Old  Man  Singleton  had  been  the 
victim.  A  head  of  cabbage,  he  said,  had  fallen 
out  of  a  tree  and  hit  him  on  his  own  head  one 
evening  as  he  was  walking  alone  in  Central  Park. 
He  had  been  dazed  by  the  blow  for  a  moment; 
and  when  he  regained  his  feet  a  considerable  sum 
of  money  which  he  had  been  carrying  was  gone. 
He  was  sure  that  he  had  been  struck  by  a  head  of 
cabbage,  for  a  head  of  cabbage  lay  on  the  path 
way  near  him  when  he  was  helped  to  his  feet.  He 
did  not  pretend  to  be  able  to  say  how  a  head  of 
cabbage  could  have  gotten  into  one  of  the  park 
trees. 

The  police  discredited  his  story,  pointing  out 
that  likely  the  old  man,  who  was  near-sighted,  had 
blundered  against  a  tree  in  the  dusk  and  struck  his 

[1291 


Carter  and  Other  People 


head.  The  head  of  cabbage,  they  told  the  report 
ers,  could  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it;  it  could 
not  have  come  into  contact  with  his  head  at  all, 
unless,  indeed,  some  one  had  put  it  into  a  sack 
and  swung  it  on  him  like  a  bludgeon;  and  this,  the 
police  said,  was  too  absurd  to  be  considered.  For 
why  should  a  crook  use  a  head  of  cabbage,  when 
the  same  results  might  have  been  attained  with 
the  more  usual  blackjack,  stick  or  fist? 

Old  Man  Singleton  was  not  badly  hurt;  and  as 
regarded  the  loss  of  the  money,  he  never  said, 
nor  did  his  family  ever  say,  just  how  large  the 
sum  was.  Mr.  Singleton  had  the  vague  impression 
that  after  the  cabbage  fell  out  of  the  tree  and  hit 
him  he  had  been  helped  to  his  feet  by  a  man  who 
limped  and  who  said  to  him:  "Kale  is  given  to 
them  that  can  best  use  it,  to  have  and  to  hold." 

He  did  not  accuse  this  person,  who  disappeared 
before  he  was  thoroughly  himself  again,  of  hav 
ing  found  the  money  which  had  evidently  dropped 
from  his  pocket  when  the  cabbage  fell  from  the 
tree  and  hit  him,  but  he  was  suspicious,  and  he 
thought  the  police  were  taking  the  matter  too 
lightly;  he  criticized  the  police  in  an  interview 
given  to  the  papers.  The  police  pointed  out  the 
irrelevance  of  the  alleged  words  of  the  alleged 
person  who  limped,  and  intimated  that  Mr.  Single 
ton  was  irrational  and  should  be  kept  at  home  eve 
nings  ;  as  far  as  they  were  concerned,  the  incident 
was  closed. 

But  I  got  another  slant  at  it,  as  Ed  might  have 
[130] 


Kale 

said.  Last  winter  I  was  talking  at  my  club  with 
a  friend  just  back  from  Cuba,  where  the  rum  is 
red  and  joy  is  unconfined. 

"I  met  a  friend  of  yours,"  he  said,  "by  the  name 
of  Ed  down  there,  who  is  running  a  barroom  and 
seems  to  be  quite  a  sport  in  his  way.  Sent  his 
regards  to  you.  Must  have  made  it  pay — seems 
to  have  all  kinds  of  money.  Named  his  barroom 
'The  Second  Thought/  Asked  him  why.  He  said 
nobody  knew  but  himself,  and  he  was  keeping  it  a 
secret — though  you  might  guess.  Wants  you  to 
come  down.  Sent  you  a  message.  Let's  see :  what 
was  it?  Oh,  yes!  Cryptic!  Very  cryptic!  Wrote 
it  down — here  it  is:  'Kale!  Kale!  The  gang's 
all  here!  Make  anything  out  of  it?  I  can't." 

I  could,  though  I  didn't  tell  him  what.  But  I 
shall  not  visit  Ed  in  Cuba;  I  consider  him  an  im 
moral  person. 


.— Bubbles 


VIL— -Bubbles 


TOMMY  HAWKINS  was  not  so  sober  that  you 
could  tell  it  on  him.  Certainly  his  friend  Jack 
Dobson,  calling  on  him  one  dreary  winter  evening 
— an  evening  of  that  winter  before  John  Barley 
corn  cried  maudlin  tears  into  his  glass  and  kissed 
America  good-by — would  never  have  guessed  it 
from  Tommy's  occupation.  Presenting  himself 
at  Tommy's  door  and  finding  it  unlocked,  Jack  had 
gone  on  in.  A  languid  splashing  guided  him  to 
the  bathroom.  In  the  tub  sat  Tommy  with  the 
water  up  to  his  shoulders,  blowing  soap  bubbles. 

"You  darned  old  fool !"  said  Jack.  "Aren't  you 
ever  going  to  grow  up,  Tommy?" 

"Nope,"  said  Tommy  placidly.     "What  for?" 

Sitting  on  a  chair  close  by  the  bathtub  was  a 
shallow  silver  dish  with  a  cake  of  soap  and  some 
reddish-colored  suds  in  it.  Tommy  had  bought 
the  dish  to  give  some  one  for  a  wedding  present, 
and  then  had  forgotten  to  send  it. 

"What  makes  the  suds  red?"  asked  Jack. 

"I  poured  a  lot  of  that  nose-and-throat  spray 
stuff  into  it,"  explained  Tommy.  "It  makes  them 
prettier.  Look!" 

[135] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


As  a  pipe  he  was  using  a  piece  of  hollow  brass 
curtain  rod  six  or  eight  inches  long  and  of  about 
the  diameter  of  a  fat  lead  pencil.  He  soused  this 
thing  in  the  reddish  suds  and  manufactured  a  bub 
ble  with  elaborate  care.  With  a  graceful  gesture 
of  his  wet  arm  he  gently  waved  the  rod  until  the 
bubble  detached  itself.  It  floated  in  the  air  for  a 
moment,  and  the  thin,  reddish  integument  caught 
the  light  from  the  electric  globe  and  gave  forth  a 
brief  answering  flash  as  of  fire.  Then  the  bubble 
suddenly  and  whimsically  dashed  itself  against 
the  wall  and  was  no  more,  leaving  a  faint,  damp, 
reddish  trace  upon  the  white  plaster. 

uAir  current  caught  it,"  elucidated  Tommy  with 
the  air  of  a  circus  proprietor  showing  off  pet  ele 
phants.  In  his  most  facetious  moments  Tommy 
was  wont  to  hide  his  childish  soul  beneath  an  ex 
terior  of  serious  dignity.  "This  old  dump  is  full 
of  air  currents.  They  come  in  round  the  windows, 
come  in  round  the  doors,  come  right  in  through 
the  walls.  Damned  annoying,  too,  for  a  scientist 
making  experiments  with  bubbles — starts  a  bubble 
and  never  knows  which  way  it's  going  to  jump. 
I'm  gonna  complain  to  the  management  of  this 
hotel." 

"You're  going  to  come  out  of  that  bathtub  and 
get  into  your  duds,"  said  Jack.  uThat  water's 
getting  cool  now,  and  between  cold  water  and  air 
currents  you'll  have  pneumonia  the  first  thing  you 
know — you  poor  silly  fish,  you." 

"Speaking  of  fish,"  said  Tommy  elliptically, 
[136] 


Bubbles 


''there's  a  bottle  of  cocktails  on  the  mantel  in  the 
room  there.  Forgot  it  for  a  moment.  Don't 
want  to  be  inhospitable,  but  don't  drink  all  of 


it." 


"It's  all  gone,"  said  Dobson  a  moment  later. 

"So?"  said  Tommy  in  surprise.  "That's  the 
way  with  cocktails.  Here  one  minute  and  gone 
the  next — like  bubbles.  Bubbles !  Life's  like  that, 
Jack!"  He  made  another  bubble  with  great 
solemnity,  watched  it  float  and  dart  and  burst. 
"Pouf!"  he  said.  "Bubbles!  Bubbles!  Life's 
like  that!" 

"You're  an  original  philosopher,  you  are,"  said 
Jack,  seizing  him  by  the  shoulders.  "You're  about 
as  original  as  a  valentine.  Douse  yourself  with 
cold  water  and  rub  yourself  down  and  dress. 
Come  out  of  it,  kid,  or  you'll  be  sick." 

"If  I  get  sick,"  said  Tommy,  obeying,  neverthe 
less,  "I  won't  have  to  go  to  work  to-morrow." 

"Why  aren't  you  working  to-day?"  asked  his 
friend,  working  on  him  with  a  coarse  towel. 

"Day  off,"  said  Tommy. 

"Day  off !"  rejoined  Dobson.  "Since  when  has 
the  Morning  Despatch  been  giving  two  days  off  a 
week  to  its  reporters  ?  You  had  your  day  off  Tues 
day,  and  this  is  Thursday." 

"Is  it?"  said  Tommy.  "I  always  get  Tuesday 
and  Thursday  mixed.  Both  begin  with  a  T.  Hey, 
Jack,  how's  that?  Both  begin  with  a  T!  End 
with  a  tea  party!  Good  line,  hey,  Jack?  Tues 
day  and  Thursday  both  begin  with  a  T  and  end 

[1371 


Carter  and  Other  People 


with  a  tea  party.  I'm  gonna  write  a  play  rounc 
that,  Jack.  Broadway  success!  Letters  a  fool 
high !  Royalties  for  both  of  us !  I  won't  forget 
you,  Jack!  You  suggested  the  idea  for  the  plot 
Jack.  Drag  you  out  in  front  of  the  curtain  with 
me  when  I  make  my  speech.  'Author!  Author! 
yells  the  crowd.  'Ladies  and  gentlemen,'  says  I 
'here  is  the  obscure  and  humble  person  who  set  ir 
motion  the  train  of  thought  that  led  to  my  writing 
this  masterpiece.  Such  as  he  is,  I  introduce  hirr 
to  you.1  " 

"Shut  up !"  said  Jack,  and  continued  to  lacerate 
Tommy's  hide  with  the  rough  towel.  "Hold  still ! 
Now  go  and  get  into  your  clothes."  And  a; 
Tommy  began  to  dress  he  regarded  that  persor 
darkly.  "You're  a  brilliant  wag,  you  are!  It's 
a  shame  the  way  the  copy  readers  down  on  th( 
Despatch  keep  your  best  things  out  of  print,  you 
splattering  supermudhen  of  journalism,  you ! 
You'll  wake  up  some  morning  without  any  more 
job  than  a  kaiser."  And  as  Tommy  threaded  him 
self  into  the  mystic  maze  of  his  garments  Mr 
Dobson  continued  to  look  at  him  and  mutter  dis 
gustedly,  "Bubbles!" 

Not  that  he  was  afraid  that  Tommy  would  ac 
tually  lose  his  job.  If  it  had  been  possible  for 
Tommy  to  lose  his  job  that  must  have  happened 
years  before.  But  Tommy  wrote  a  certain  joyous 
type  of  story  better  than  any  other  person  in  New 
York,  and  his  f  acetiousness  got  him  out  of  as  many 
scrapes  as  it  got  him  into.  He  was  thirty  years 

[138] 


Bubbles 


old.  At  ninety  he  would  still  be  experimenting 
with  the  visible  world  in  a  spirit  of  random  eager 
ness,  joshing  everything  in  it,  including  himself. 
He  looked  exactly  like  the  young  gentleman  pic 
tured  in  a  widely  disseminated  collar  advertise 
ment.  He  enjoyed  looking  that  way,  and  occa 
sionally  he  enjoyed  talking  as  if  he  were  exactly 
that  kind  of  person.  He  loved  to  turn  his  ironic 
levity  against  the  character  he  seemed  to  be,  much 
as  the  mad  wags  who  grace  the  column  of  F.  P.  A. 
delight  in  getting  their  sayings  across  accompanied 
by  a  gentle  satirical  fillip  at  all  mad  waggery. 

"Speaking  of  bubbles,"  he  suddenly  chuckled  as 
he  carefully  adjusted  his  tie  in  the  collar  that 
looked  exactly  like  the  one  in  the  advertisement, 
"there's  an  old  party  in  the  next  room  that  takes 
'em  more  seriously  than  you  do,  Jack." 

The  old  downtown  hotel  in  which  Tommy  lived 
had  once  been  a  known  and  noted  hostelry,  and 
persons  from  Plumville,  Pennsylvania,  Griffin, 
Georgia,  and  Galva,  Illinois,  still  stopped  there 
when  in  New  York,  because  their  fathers  and 
mothers  had  stopped  there  on  their  wedding  jour 
neys  perhaps.  It  was  not  such  a  very  long  way 
from  the  Eden  Musee,  when  there  was  an  Eden 
Musee.  Tommy's  room  had  once  formed  part  of 
a  suite.  The  bathroom  which  adjoined  it  had  be 
longed  jointly  to  another  room  in  the  suite.  But 
now  these  two  rooms  were  always  let  separately. 
Still,  however,  the  bathroom  was  a  joint  affair. 
When  Tommy  wished  to  bathe  he  must  first  insure 

[139] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


privacy  by  hooking  on  the  inside  the  door  that  led 
into  the  bathroom  from  the  chamber  beyond. 

"Old  party  in  the  next  room?"  questioned  Jack. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Tommy,  who  had  benefited  by 
his  cold  sluicing  and  his  rubdown.  "I  gave  him  a 
few  bubbles  for  his  very  own — through  the  key 
hole  into  his  room,  you  know.  Poked  that  brass 
rod  through  and  blew  the  bubble  in  his  room.  De 
tached  it  with  a  little  jerk  and  let  it  float.  Seemed 
more  sociable,  you  know,  to  let  him  in  on  the  fun. 
Never  be  stingy  with  your  pleasures,  Jack.  Shows 
a  mean  spirit — a  mean  soul.  Why  not  cheer  the 
old  party  up  with  soap  bubbles?  Cost  little,  bub 
bles  do.  More  than  likely  he's  a  stranger  in  New 
York.  Unfriendly  city,  he  thinks.  Big  city.  No 
body  thinks  of  him.  Nobody  cares  for  him. 
Away  from  home.  Winter  day.  Melancholy. 
Well,  I  say,  give  him  a  bubble  now  and  then. 
Shows  some  one  is  thinking  of  him.  Shows  the 
world  isn't  so  thoughtless  and  gloomy  after  all. 
Neighborly  sort  of  thing  to  do,  Jack.  Makes  him 
think  of  his  youth — home — mother's  knee — all 
that  kind  of  thing,  Jack.  Cheers  him  up.  Sat  in 
the  tub  there  and  got  to  thinking  of  him.  Almost 
cried,  Jack,  when  I  thought  how  lonely  the  old 
man  must  be — got  one  of  these  old  man's  voices. 
Whiskers.  Whiskers  deduced  from  the  voice.  So 
I  climbed  out  of  the  tub  every  ten  or  fifteen  min 
utes  all  afternoon  and  gave  the  old  man  a  bubble. 
Rain  outside — fog,  sleet.  Dark  indoors.  Old 
man  sits  and  thinks  nobody  loves  him.  Along 


Bubbles 


comes  a  bubble.  Old  man  gets  happy.  Laughs. 
Remembers  his  infancy.  Skies  clear.  You  think 
I'm  a  selfish  person,  Jack?  I'm  not.  I'm  a  Sa 
maritan.  Where  will  we  eat?" 

"You  are  a  darned  fool,"  said  Jack.  "You  say 
he  took  them  seriously?  What  do  you  mean? 
Did  he  like 'em?" 

"Couldn't  quite  make  out,"  said  Tommy.  "But 
they  moved  him.  Gasped  every  now  and  then. 
Think  he  prayed.  Emotion,  Jack.  Probably 
made  him  think  of  boyhood's  happy  days  down 
on  the  farm.  Heard  him  talking  to  himself. 
Think  he  cried.  Went  to  bed  anyhow  with  his 
clothes  on  and  pulled  the  covers  over  his  head. 
Looked  through  the  keyhole  and  saw  that.  Gray 
whiskers  sticking  up,  and  that's  all.  Deduced  the 
whiskers  from  the  voice,  Jack.  Let's  give  the  old 
party  a  couple  more  bubbles  and  then  go  eat.  It's 
been  an  hour  since  he's  had  one.  Thinks  I'm  for 
getting  him,  no  doubt." 

So  they  gave  the  old  man  a  couple  of  bubbles, 
poking  the  brass  rod  through  the  keyhole  of  the 
door. 

The  result  was  startling  and  unexpected.  First 
there  came  a  gasp  from  the  other  room,  a  sort 
of  whistling  release  of  the  breath,  and  an  instant 
later  a  high,  whining,  nasal  voice. 

"Oh,  God!  God!  Again!  You  meant  it,  then, 
God!  You  meant  it!" 

The  two  young  men  started  back  and  looked  at 
each  other  in  wonderment.  There  was  such  a 

[141! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


quivering  agony,  such  an  utter  groveling  terror  in 
this  voice  from  the  room  beyond  that  they  were 
daunted. 

"What's  eating  him?"  asked  Dobson,  instinc 
tively  dropping  his  tones  to  a  whisper. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tommy,  temporarily  sub 
dued.  "Sounds  like  that  last  one  shell-shocked 
him  when  it  exploded,  doesn't  it?" 

But  Tommy  was  subdued  only  for  a  moment. 

As  they  went  out  into  the  corridor  he  giggled 
and  remarked,  "Told  you  he  took  'em  seriously, 
Jack." 

II 

"Seriously"  was  a  word  scarcely  strong  enough 
for  the  way  in  which  the  old  party  in  the  room 
beyond  had  taken  it,  though  he  had  not,  in  fact, 
seen  the  bubble.  He  had  only  seen  a  puff  of  smoke 
coming  apparently  from  nowhere,  originating  in 
the  air  itself,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  manifesting  it 
self,  materializing  itself  out  of  nothing,  and  float 
ing  in  front  of  the  one  eye  which  was  peeping  fear 
fully  out  of  the  huddled  bedclpthing  which  he  had 
drawn  over  himself.  He  had  lain  quaking  on  the 
bed,  waiting  for  this  puff  of  smoke  for  an  hour  or 
more,  hoping  against  hope  that  it  would  not  come, 
praying  and  muttering,  knotting  his  bony  hands  in 
the  whiskers  that  Tommy  had  seen  sticking  up 
from  the  coverings,  twisting  convulsively. 

Tommy  had  whimsically  filled  the  bubble,  as  he 
blew  it,  with  smoke  from  his  cigarette.  He  had 

[142] 


Bubbles 


in  like  manner,  throughout  the  afternoon  and  early 
evening,  filled  all  the  bubbles  that  he  had  given  the 
old  man  with  cigarette  or  pipe  smoke.  The  old 
party  had  not  been  bowled  over  by  anything  in 
Tommy's  tobacco.  He  had  not  noticed  that  the 
smoke  was  tobacco  smoke,  for  he  had  been  smok 
ing  a  pipe  himself  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and 
had  not  aired  out  the  room.  It  was  neither  bub 
bles  nor  tobacco  that  had  flicked  a  raw  spot  on  his 
soul.  It  was  smoke. 

Ill 

Bubbles !  They  seemed  to  be  in  Tommy's  brain. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  association  of  ideas  that  made, 
him  think  of  champagne.  At  any  rate  he  declared 
that  he  must  have  some,  and  vetoed  his  friend's 
suggestion  that  they  dine — as  they  frequently  did 
— at  one  of  the  little  Italian  table  d'hote  places  in 
Greenwich  Village. 

"You're  a  bubble  and  I'm  a  bubble  and  the 
world  is  a  bubble,"  Tommy  was  saying  a  little 
later  as  he  watched  the  gas  stirring  in  his  golden 
drink. 

They  had  gone  to  the  genial  old  Brevoort,  which 
was — but  why  tell  persons  who  missed  the  Bre 
voort  in  its  mellower  days  what  they  missed,  and 
why  cause  anguished  yearnings  in  the  bosoms  of 
those  who  knew  it  well  ? 

"Tommy,"  said  his  friend,  "don't,  if  you  love 
me,  hand  out  any  more  of  your  jejune  poeticism  or 
musical-comedy  philosophy.  I'll  agree  with  you 

[143] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


that  the  world  is  a  bubble  for  the  sake  of  argu 
ment,  if  you'll  change  the  record.  I  want  to  eat, 
and  nothing  interferes  with  my  pleasure  in  a  meal 
so  much  as  this  line  of  pseudocerebration  that  you 
seem  to  have  adopted  lately." 

"Bubbles  seem  trivial  things,  Jack,"  went  on 
Tommy,  altogether  unperturbed.  "But  I  have  a 
theory  that  there  aren't  any  trivial  things.  I  like 
to  think  of  the  world  balancing  itself  on  a  trivial 
thing.  Look  at  the  Kaiser,  for  instance.  A  mad 
man.  Well,  let's  say  there's  been  a  blood  clot  in 
his  brain  for  years — a  little  trivial  thing  the  size 
of  a  pin  point,  Jack.  It  hooks  up  with  the  wrong 
brain  cell;  it  gets  into  the  wrong  channel,  and — 
pouf !  The  world  goes  to  war.  A  thousand  mil 
lion  people  are  affected  by  it — by  that  one  little 
clot  of  blood  no  bigger  than  a  pin  point  that  gets 
into  the  wrong  channel.  An  atom !  A  planet  bal 
anced  on  an  atom!  A  star  pivoting  on  a  mole 
cule!" 

"Have  some  soup,"  said  his  friend. 

"Bubbles!  Bubbles  and  butterflies!"  continued 
Tommy.  "Some  day,  Jack,  I'm  going  to  write  a 
play  in  which  a  butterfly's  wing  brushes  over  an 
empire." 

"No,  you're  not,"  said  Jack.  "You're  just  go 
ing  to  talk  about  it  and  think  you're  writing  it  and 
peddle  the  idea  round  to  everybody  you  know, 
and  then  finally  some  wise  guy  is  going  to  grab  it 
off  and  really  write  it.  You've  been  going  to  write 
a  play  ever  since  I  knew  you." 

[144] 


Bubbles 


"Yes,  I  am;  I'm  really  going  to  write  that 
play." 

''Well,  Tommy,"  said  Jack,  looking  round  the 
chattering  dining  room,  "this  is  a  hell  of  a  place 
to  do  it  in!" 

"Meaning,  of  course,"  said  Tommy  serenely, 
"that  it  takes  more  than  a  butterfly  to  write  a  play 
about  a  butterfly." 

"You  get  me,"  said  his  friend.  And  then  after 
a  pause  he  went  on  with  sincerity  in  his  manner: 
"You  know  I  think  you  could  write  the  play, 
Tommy.  But  unless  you  get  to  work  on  some  of 
your  ideas  pretty  soon,  and  buckle  down  to  them 
in  earnest,  other  people  will  continue  to  write  your 
plays — and  you  will  continue  to  josh  them  and 
yourself,  and  your  friends  will  continue  to  think 
that  you  could  write  better  plays  if  you  would  only 
do  it.  People  aren't  going  to  take  you  seriously, 
Tommy,  till  you  begin  to  take  yourself  a  little 
seriously.  Why,  you  poor,  futile,  silly,  misguided, 
dear  old  mutt,  you !  You  don't  even  have  sense 
enough — you  don't  have  the  moral  continuity,  if 
you  follow  me — to  stay  sore  at  a  man  that  does 
you  dirt!  Now,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Tommy  a 
little  more  seriously. 

"Well  now,  do  you?"  persisted  his  friend.  "I 
don't  say  it's  good  Christian  doctrine  not  to  for 
give  people.  It  isn't.  But  I've  seen  people  put 
things  across  on  you,  Tommy,  and  seen  you  laugh 
it  off  and  let  'em  be  friends  with  you  again  inside 

[i45l 


Carter  and  Other  People 


of  six  weeks.  I  couldn't  do  it,  and  nine-tenths  of 
the  fellows  we  know  couldn't  do  it;  and  in  the  way 
you  do  it  it  shouldn't  be  done.  You  should  at 
least  remember,  even  if  you  do  forgive ;  remember 
well  enough  not  to  get  bit  by  the  same  dog  again. 
With  you,  old  kid,  it's  all  a  part  of  your  being  a 
butterfly  and  a  bubble.  It's  no  particular  virtue  in 
you.  I  wouldn't  talk  to  you  like  a  Dutch  uncle  if 
I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you  to  make  good. 
But  you've  got  to  be  prodded." 

"There's  one  fellow  that  did  me  dirt,"  said 
Tommy  musingly,  "that  I've  never  taken  to  my 
bosom  again." 

"What  did  you  do  to  him?"  asked  his  friend. 
"Beat  him  to  death  with  a  butterfly's  wing, 
Tommy,  or  blow  him  out  of  existence  with  a  soap 
bubble?" 

"I've  never  done  anything  to  him,"  said  Tommy 
soberly.  "And  I  don't  think  I  ever  would  do  any 
thing  to  him.  I  just  remember,  that's  all.  If  he 
ever  gets  his  come-uppance,  as  they  say  in  the  rural 
districts,  it  won't  be  through  any  act  of  mine.  Let 
life  take  revenge  for  me.  I  never  will." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  said  Dobson.  "But 
who  was  this  guy?  And  what  did  he  do  to  you?" 

IV 

"He  was — and  is — my  uncle,"  said  Tommy, 
"and  he  did  about  everything  to  me.  Listen! 
You  think  I  do  nothing  but  flitter,  flutter,  frivol 
and  flivver !  And  you  may  be  right,  and  maybe  I 

[146] 


Bubbles 


never  will  do  anything  else.     Maybe  I  never  will 
be  anything  but  a  kid. 

"I  was  young  when  I  was  born.  No,  that's  not 
one  of  my  silly  lines,  Jack.  I  mean  it  seriously. 
I  was  young  when  I  was  born.  I  was  born  with  a 
jolly  disposition.  But  this  uncle  of  mine  took  it 
out  of  me.  I'll  say  he  did!  The  reason  I'm  such 
a  kid  now,  Jack,  is  because  I  had  to  grow  up  when 
I  was  about  five  years  old,  and  I  stayed  grown  up 
until  I  was  seventeen  or  eighteen.  I  never  had  a 
chance  to  be  a  boy.  If  I  showed  any  desire  to  be 
it  was  knocked  out  of  me  on  the  spot.  And  if  I 
live  two  hundred  years,  and  stay  nineteen  years  old 
all  that  time,  Jack,  I  won't  any  more  than  make  up 
for  the  childhood  I  missed — that  was  stolen  from 
me.  Frivol?  I  could  frivol  a  thousand  years  and 
not  dull  my  appetite.  I  want  froth,  Jack:  froth 
and  bubbles ! 

"This  old  uncle  of  mine — he  wasn't  so  old  in 
years  when  I  first  knew  him,  but  in  his  soul  he  was 
as  old  as  the  overseers  who  whipped  the  slaves 
that  built  Cheops'  pyramid,  and  as  sandy  and  as 
flinty — hated  me  as  soon  as  he  saw  me.  He  hated 
me  before  he  saw  me.  He  would  have  hated  me 
if  he  had  never  seen  me,  because  I  was  young  and 
happy  and  careless. 

"I  was  that,  when  I  went  to  live  with  him — 
young  and  happy  and  careless.  I  was  five  years 
old.  He  was  my  father's  brother,  Uncle  Ezra 
was,  and  he  beat  my  father  out  of  money  in  his 
dirty,  underhanded  way.  Oh,  nothing  illegal !  At 

[147] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


least,  I  suppose  not.  Uncle  Ezra  was  too  cautious 
to  do  anything  that  might  be  found  out  on  him. 
There  was  nothing  that  my  mother  could  prove, 
at  any  rate,  and  my  father  had  been  careless  and 
had  trusted  him.  When  my  father  died  my  mother 
was  ill.  He  gave  us  a  home,  Uncle  Ezra  did.  She 
had  to  live  somewhere;  she  had  to  have  a  roof 
over  her  head  and  attention  of  some  sort.  She 
had  no  near  relations,  and  I  had  to  be  looked 
after. 

uSo  she  and  I  went  into  his  house  to  live.  It 
was  to  be  temporary.  We  were  to  move  as  soon 
as  she  got  better.  But  she  did  not  live  long.  I 
don't  remember  her  definitely  as  she  was  before 
we  went  to  live  with  Uncle  Ezra.  I  can  only  see 
her  as  she  lay  on  a  bed  in  a  dark  room  before  she 
died.  It  was  a  large  wooden  bed,  with  wooden 
slats  and  a  straw  mattress.  I  can  see  myself  sit 
ting  on  a  chair  by  the  head  of  the  bed  and  talking 
to  her.  My  feet  did  not  reach  to  the  floor  by  any 
means;  they  only  reached  to  the  chair  rungs.  I 
can't  remember  what  she  said  or  what  I  said.  All 
I  remember  of  her  is  that  she  had  very  bright  eyes 
and  that  her  arms  were  thin.  I  remember  her 
arms,  but  not  her  face,  except  the  eyes.  I  sup 
pose  she  used  to  reach  her  arms  out  to  me.  I 
think  she  must  have  been  jolly  at  one  time,  too. 
There  is  a  vague  feeling,  a  remembrance,  that  be 
fore  we  went  to  Uncle  Ezra's  she  was  jolly,  and 
that  she  and  I  laughed  and  played  together  in 
some  place  where  there  was  red-clover  bloom. 

[148] 


Bubbles 


"One  day  when  I  was  siting  on  the  chair,  the 
door  opened  and  Uncle  Ezra  came  in.  There  was 
some  man  with  him  that  was,  I  suppose,  a  doctor. 
I  can  recall  Uncle  Ezra's  false  grin  and  the  way 
•he  put  his  hand  on  my  head — to  impress  the  doc- 
itor,  I  suppose — and  the  way  I  pulled  away  from 
him.  For  I  felt  that  he  disliked  me,  and  I  feared 
;and  hated  him. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Ezra  gave  us  a  home.  I  don't 
(know  how  much  you  know  about  the  rural  dis- 
[tricts,  Jack.  But  when  an  Uncle  Ezra  in  a  country 
town  gives  some  one  a  home  he  acquires  merit. 
This  was  a  little  town  in  Pennsylvania  that  I'm 
talking  about,  and  Uncle  Ezra  was  a  prominent 
citizen — deacon  in  the  church  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Truly  rural  drama  stuff,  Jack,  but  I  can't 
help  that — it's  true.  Uncle  Ezra  had  a  reputa 
tion  for  being  stingy  and  mean.  Giving  us  a  home 
was  a  good  card  for  him  to  play.  My  mother 
had  a  little  money,  and  he  stole  that,  too,  when  she 
died. 

"I  suppose  he  stole  it  legally.  I  don't  know. 
It  wasn't  much.  No  one  had  any  particular  inter 
est  in  looking  out  for  me,  and  nobody  would  want 
to  start  anything  in  opposition  to  Uncle  Ezra  in 
that  town  if  it  could  be  helped  anyhow.  He  didn't 
have  the  whole  village  and  the  whole  of  the  farm 
ing  country  round  about  sewed  up,  all  by  himself, 
but  he  was  one  of  the  little  group  that  did. 
There's  a  gang  like  that  in  every  country  town,  I 
imagine.  He  was  one  of  four  or  five  big  ducks  in 

[149] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


that  little  puddle — lent  money,  took  mortgages 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing  you  read  about.  I  don't 
know  how  much  he  is  worth  now,  counting  what 
he  has  been  stealing  all  his  life.  But  it  can't  be 
a  staggering  sum.  He's  too  cowardly  to  plunge 
or  take  a  long  chance.  He  steals  and  saves  and 
grinds  in  a  little  way.  He  is  too  mean  and  small 
and  blind  and  limited  in  his  intelligence  to  be  a 
big,  really  successful  crook,  such  as  you  will  find 
in  New  York  City. 

"When  my  mother  died,  of  course,  I  stayed  with 
Uncle  Ezra.  I  suppose  everybody  said  how  good 
it  was  of  him  to  keep  me,  and  that  it  showed  a  soft 
and  kindly  spot  in  his  nature  after  all,  and  that 
he  couldn't  be  so  hard  as  he  had  the  name  of  be 
ing.  But  I  don't  see  what  else  could  have  been 
done  with  me,  unless  he  had  taken  me  out  and 
dropped  me  in  the  mill  pond  like  a  blind  cat. 
Sometimes  I  used  to  wish  he  had  done  that. 

"It  isn't  hard  to  put  a  five-year-old  kid  in  the 
wrong,  so  as  to  make  it  appear — even  to  the  child 
himself — that  he  is  bad  and  disobedient.  Uncle 
Ezra  began  that  way  with  me.  I'm  not  going  into 
details.  This  isn't  a  howl ;  it's  merely  an  explana 
tion.  But  he  persecuted  me  in  every  way.  He  put 
me  to  work  before  I  should  have  known  what  work 
was — work  too  hard  for  me.  He  deviled  me  and 
he  beat  me,  he  clothed  me  like  a  beggar  and  he 
fed  me  like  a  dog,  he  robbed  me  of  childhood  and 
of  boyhood.  I  won't  go  over  the  whole  thing. 

"I  never  had  decent  shoes,  or  a  hat  that  wasn't 
[150] 


Bubbles 


a  rag,  and  I  never  went  to  kid  parties  or  anything, 
or  even  owned  so  much  as  an  air  rifle  of  my  own. 
|The  only  pair  of  skates  I  ever  had,  Jack,  I  made 
I  For  myself  out  of  two  old  files,  with  the  help  of 
|the  village  blacksmith — and  I  got  licked  for  that. 
I  Uncle  Ezra  said  I  had  stolen  the  files  and  the 
straps.  They  belonged  to  him. 

"But  there's  one  thing  I  remember  with  more 
of  anger  than  any  other.  He  used  to  make  me 
kneel  down  and  pray  every  night  before  I  went 
to  bed,  in  his  presence;  and  sometimes  he  would 
pray  with  me.  He  was  a  deacon  in  the  church. 
There  are  plenty  of  them  on  the  square — likely 
most  of  them  are.  But  this  one  was  the  kind  you 
used  to  see  in  the  old-fashioned  melodramas. 
Truly  rural  stuff,  Jack.  He  used  to  be  quite  a 
shark  at  prayer  himself,  Uncle  Ezra  did.  I  can 
remember  how  he  looked  when  he  prayed,  with 
his  eyes  shut  and  his  Adam's  apple  bobbing  up 
and  down  and  the  sound  whining  through  his  nose. 

uThe  only  person  that  was  ever  human  to  me 
was  a  woman  I  called  Aunt  Lizzie.  I  don't  know 
really  what  relation  she  was  to  me ;  a  distant  cou 
sin  of  Uncle  Ezra's,  I  think.  She  was  half  blind 
and  she  was  deaf,  and  he  bullied  her  and  made  her 
do  all  the  housework.  She  was  bent  nearly  double 
with  drudgery.  He  had  given  her  a  home,  too. 
She  didn't  dare  be  very  good  to  me.  He  might  find 
it  out,  and  then  we  both  would  catch  it.  She  baked 
me  some  apple  dumplings  once  on  one  of  my  birth 
days.  I  was  nine  years  old.  And  he  said  she  had 

[151] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


stolen  the  apples  and  flour  from  him;  that  he  had 
not  ordered  her  to  make  any  apple  dumplings,  and 
it  was  theft;  and  he  made  me  pray  for  her,  and 
made  her  pray  for  herself,  and  he  prayed  for  both 
of  us  in  family  prayers  every  day  for  a  week. 

"I  was  nearly  eighteen  when  I  ran  away.  I 
might  have  done  it  sooner,  but  I  was  small  for  my 
age,  and  I  was  cowed.  I  didn't  dare  to  call  my 
soul  my  own,  and  I  had  a  reputation  for  being 
queer,  too.  For  I  used  to  grin  and  laugh  at  things 
no  one  else  thought  were  funny — when  Uncle 
Ezra  wasn't  round.  I  suppose  people  in  that  town 
thought  it  was  odd  that  I  could  laugh  at  all.  No 
one  could  understand  how  I  had  a  laugh  left  in 
me.  But  when  I  was  alone  I  used  to  laugh.  I 
used  to  laugh  at  myself  sometimes  because  I  was 
so  little  and  so  queer.  When  I  was  seventeen  I 
wasn't  much  bigger  than  a  thirteen-year-old  kid 
should  be.  I  packed  a  lot  of  growing  into  the  years 
between  seventeen  and  twenty-one. 

"When  I  ran  away  Aunt  Lizzie  gave  me  eighty- 
seven  cents,  all  in  nickels  and  pennies,  and  there 
were  two  or  three  of  those  old-fashioned  two-cent 
pieces  in  it,  too,  that  she  had  had  for  God  knows 
how  long.  It  was  all  she  had.  I  don't  suppose  he 
ever  paid  her  anything  at  all,  and  the  wonder  was 
she  had  that  much.  I  told  her  that  when  I  got 
out  into  the  world  and  made  good  I  would  come 
and  get  her,  but  she  shivered  all  over  with  fright 
at  the  idea  of  daring  to  leave.  I  have  sent  her 
things  from  time  to  time  in  the  last  ten  years — 

[152! 


Bubbles 


money,  and  dresses  I  have  bought  for  her,  and  lit 
tle  things  I  thought  she  would  like.  But  I  don't 
know  whether  he  let  her  have  them  or  not.  I 
never  got  any  letter  from  her  at  all.  I  don't  even 
know  whether  she  can  write,  to  tell  the  truth,  and 
she  wouldn't  dare  get  one  of  the  neighbors  to  write 
for  her.  But  if  I  ever  make  any  real  money,  Jack, 
I  am  going  to  go  and  get  her,  whether  she  dares  to 
come  away  or  not. 

"Well,  when  I  left,  the  thing  I  wanted  to  do 
was  go  to  school.  Uncle  Ezra  hadn't  given  me 
time  to  go  to  school  much.  But  I  tramped  to  a 
town  where  there  was  a  little  fresh-water  college 
that  had  its  own  prep  school  attached,  and  I  did 
the  whole  seven  years  of  prep  school  and  college  in 
five  years.  You  see,  I  had  a  lot  of  bounce  in  me. 
The  minute  I  got  away  from  Uncle  Ezra  the  whole 
world  brightened  up  for  me.  The  clouds  rolled 
by  and%  life  looked  like  one  grand  long  joke,  and  I 
turned  into  a  kid.  I  romped  through  that  prep 
school  and  that  college,  and  made  my  own  living 
while  I  was  doing  it,  and  laughed  all  the  time  and 
loved  the  world  and  everything  in  it,  and  it  came 
as  easy  to  me  as  water  comes  to  a  duck.  I  came 
on  down  here  to  New  York  and  was  lucky  enough 
to  get  a  chance  as  a  reporter,  and  IVe  been  romp 
ing  ever  since. 

"I  don't  want  to  do  anything  but  romp.  Of 
course,  I  want  to  write  some  good  stuff  some  day, 
but  I  want  to  keep  romping  while  I  write  it,  and  I 
want  it  to  be  stuff  that  has  a  romp  in  it,  too.  You 

[i53] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


say  I  romp  so  much  I'm  never  serious.  Well,  I 
do  have  some  serious  moments,  too.  I  have  a 
dream  that  keeps  coming  to  me.  I  dream  that 
I'm  back  in  that  little  town,  and  that  I'm  Uncle 
Ezra's  slave  again,  and  that  I  can't  get  away. 

"Sometimes  the  dream  takes  the  form  of  Uncle 
Ezra  coming  here  to  New  York  to  get  me,  and  I 
know  that  I've  got  to  go  back  with  him  to  that 
place,  and  I  wake  up  sweating  and  crying  like  an 
eight-year-old  kid.  If  he  ever  really  came  it  would 
put  a  crimp  into  me,  Jack. 

"You  say  I'm  a  butterfly.  And  I  say,  yes,  Jack, 
thank  God  I  am  I  I  used  to  be  a  grubworm,  and 
now  I'm  a  butterfly,  praise  heaven ! 

"Well,  that's  the  guy  I  hold  the  grudge  against, 
and  that's  why  I'm  fool  enough  to  rush  into  every 
pleasure  I  can  find.  I  don't  know  that  I'll  ever 
change.  And  as  for  the  man,  I  don't  ever  want  to 
see  him.  I  don't  know  that  I'd  ever  do  anything 
to  him  if  I  did — beat  him  to  death  with  a  butter 
fly's  wing,  or  blow  him  up  with  a  soap  bubble,  as 
you  suggested.  Let  him  alone.  He'll  punish  him 
self.  He  is  punished  by  being  what  he  is.  I 
wouldn't  put  a  breath  into  the  scale  one  way  or 
the  other — not  even  a  puff  of  cigarette  smoke." 

He  blew  a  breath  of  cigarette  smoke  luxuriously 
out  of  his  nose  as  he  finished,  and  then  he  re 
marked,  "Let's  go  somewhere  and  dance." 

"Nazimova  is  doing  Ibsen  uptown,"  suggested 
Jack,  "and  I  have  a  couple  of  tickets.  Let's  go  and 
see  Ibsen  Ib  a  little." 

[i54l 


Bubbles 


"Nope,"  said  Tommy.  "Ibsen's  got  too  much 
sense.  I  want  something  silly.  Me  for  a  cabaret, 
or  some  kind  of  a  hop  garden." 


But  sometimes  in  this  ironical  world  it  happens 
that  we  have  already  beaten  a  man  to  death  with 
a  butterfly's  wing,  slain  him  with  a  bubble,  sent 
him  whirling  into  the  hereafter  on  a  puff  of  smoke, 
even  as  we  are  saying  that  such  a  thing  is  foreign 
to  our  thoughts. 

The  old  party  in  the  room  next  to  Tommy's  at 
the  hotel  had  arrived  the  day  before,  with  an  um 
brella,  a  straw  suitcase  and  a  worried  eye  on  either 
side  his  long,  white,  chalkish,  pitted  nose.  He 
seemed  chilly  in  spite  of  his  large  plum-colored 
overcoat,  of  a  cut  that  has  survived  only  in  the 
rural  districts.  He  wore  a  salient,  assertive  beard, 
that  had  once  been  sandy  and  was  now  almost 
white,  but  it  was  the  only  assertive  thing  about 
him.  His  manner  was  far  from  aggressive. 

An  hour  after  he  had  been  shown  to  his  room 
he  appeared  at  the  desk  again  and  inquired  tim 
idly  of  the  clerk,  "There's  a  fire  near  here?" 
^"Little  blaze  in  the  next  block.    Doesn't  amount 
to  anything,"  said  the  clerk. 

"I  heard  the — the  engines,"  said  the  guest 
apologetically. 

"Doesn't  amount  to  anything,"  said  the  clerk 
again.  And  then,  "Nervous  about  fire?" 

[155] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


The  old  party  seemed  startled. 

"Who  ?  Me  ?  Why  should  I  be  nervous  about 
fire?  No!  No!  No!"  He  beat  a  sudden  re 
treat.  "I  was  just  asking— just  asking/'  he  threw 
back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Old  duck's  scared  of  fire  and  ashamed  to  own 
it,"  mused  the  clerk,  watching  him  out  of  the 

lobby. 

The  old  party  went  back  to  his  room,  and  there 
one  of  the  first  things  he  saw  was  a  copy  of  the 
Bible  lying  on  the  bureau.     There  is  an  organi 
zation  which  professes  for  its  object  the  placing  of 
a  Bible  in  every  hotel  room  in  the  land.    The  old 
party  had  his  own  Bible  with  him.    As  if  reminded 
of  it  by  the  one  on  the  bureau,  he  took  it  out  of 
his  suitcase  and  sat  down  and  began  to  turn  the 
leaves  like  a  person  familiar  with  the  book— and 
like  a  person  in  need  of  comfort,  as  indeed  he 

was. 

There  was  a  text  in  Matthew  that  he  sought — 
where  was  it?  Somewhere  in  the  first  part  of 
Matthew's  gospel — ah,  here  it  is:  The  twelfth 
chapter  and  the  thirty-first  verse: 

"All  manner  of  sin  and  blasphemy  shall  be  for 
given  unto  men.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  terrible  reservation  in  the  same  verse. 
He  kept  his  eyes  from  it,  and  read  the  first  part 
over  and  over,  forming  the  syllables  with  his  lips, 
but  not  speaking  aloud. 

"All  manner  of  sin— all  manner  of  sin -" 

And  then,  as  if  no  longer  able  to  avoid  it,  he 
[156] 


Bubbles 


yielded  his  consciousness  to  the  latter  clause  of  the 
verse : 

"But  the  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  Ghost 
shall  not  be  forgiven  unto  men." 

What  was  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  Ghost? 
Could  what  he  had  done  be  construed  as  that? 
Probably  if  one  lied  to  God  in  his  prayers,  that 
was  blasphemy  against  the  Holy  Ghost — one  form 
of  it.  And  had  he  been  lying  to  God  these  last 
two  weeks  when  he  had  said  over  and  over  again 
in  his  prayers  that  it  was  all  a  mistake?  It  hadn't 
been  all  a  mistake,  but  the  worst  part  of  it  had 
been  a  mistake. 

He  went  out  for  his  dinner  that  evening,  but  he 
was  in  again  before  ten  o'clock.  He  could  not 
have  slept  well.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
he  appeared  in  front  of  the  desk. 

He  had  heard  fire  engines  again. 

"See  here,"  said  the  night  clerk,  appraising  him, 
as  the  day  clerk  had  done,  as  a  rube  who  had  been 
seldom  to  the  city  and  was  nervous  about  fire, 
"you  don't  need  to  be  worried.  If  anything  should 
happen  near  here  we'd  get  all  the  guests  out  in  a 
jiffy." 

The  old  party  returned  to  his  room.  He  was 
up  early  the  next  morning  and  down  to  breakfast 
before  the  dining  room  was  open. 

He  did  not  look  as  if  he  had  had  much  rest. 
The  morning  hours  he  devoted  to  reading  his 
Bible  in  his  room.  Perhaps  he  found  comfort 
in  it.  At  noon  he  seemed  a  bit  more  cheerful.  He 

[i57] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


asked  the  clerk  the  way  to  the  Eden  Musee,  and 
was  surprised  to  learn  that  that  place  of  amuse 
ment  had  been  closed  for  a  year  or  two.  The 
clerk  recommended  a  moving-picture  house  round 
the  corner.  But  it  had  begun  to  rain  and  snow 
and  sleet  all  together;  the  sky  was  dark  and  the 
wind  was  rising;  the  old  party  elected  not  to  go 
out  after  all. 

He  went  back  to  his  room  once  more,  and  his 
black  fear  and  melancholy  descended  upon  him 
again,  and  the  old  debate  began  to  weave  through 
his  brain  anew.  For  two  weeks  he  had  been  flee 
ing  from  the  debate  and  from  himself.  He  had 
come  to  New  York  to  get  away  from  it,  but  it 
was  no  good.  Just  when  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  God  had  forgiven  him,  and  was  ex 
periencing  a  momentary  respite,  some  new  doubt 
would  assail  him  and  the  agony  would  begin  again. 

The  old  debate — he  had  burned  the  store,  with 
the  living  quarters  over  it,  to  get  the  insurance 
money,  after  having  removed  a  part  of  the  in 
sured  goods,  but  he  did  not  regard  that  as  an 
overwhelming  sin.  It  wasn't  right,  of  course,  in 
one  way.  And  yet  in  another  way  it  was  merely 
sharp  business  practice,  so  he  told  himself.  For 
a  year  before  that,  when  one  of  his  buildings  had 
burned  through  accident,  he  had  been  forced  to 
accept  from  the  same  insurance  company  less  than 
was  actually  due  him  as  a  matter  of  equity. 
Therefore,  to  make  money  out  of  that  company  by 
a  shrewd  trick  was  in  a  way  merely  to  get  back  his 

[158] 


Bubbles 


own  again.  It  wasn't  the  sort  of  thing  that  a 
deacon  in  the  church  would  care  to  have  found  out 
on  him,  of  course.  It  was  wrong  in  a  sense.  But 
it  was  the  wrong  that  it  had  led  to  that  worried 
him. 

It  was  the  old  woman's  death  that  worried  him. 
He  hadn't  meant  to  burn  her  to  death,  God  knows ! 
He  hadn't  known  she  was  in  the  building. 

He  had  sent  her  on  a  week's  visit  to  another 
town,  to  see  a  surprised  cousin  of  his  own,  and  it 
had  been  distinctly  understood  that  she  was  not  to 
return  until  Saturday.  But  some  time  on  Friday 
evening  she  must  have  crept  back  home  and  gone 
to  bed  in  her  room.  He  had  not  known  she  was 
there. 

"I  didn't  know !    I  didn't  know !" 

There  were  times  when  he  gibbered  the  words 
to  himself  by  the  hour. 

It  was  at  midnight  that  he  had  set  fire  to  the 
place.  The  old  woman  was  deaf.  Even  when  the 
flames  began  to  crackle  she  could  not  have  heard 
them.  She  had  had  no  more  chance  than  a  rat  in 
a  trap.  The  old  fool!  It  was  her  own  fault! 
Why  had  she  not  obeyed  him  ?  Why  had  she  come 
creeping  back,  like  a  deaf  old  half-blind  tabby 
cat,  to  die  in  the  flames?  It  was  her  own  fault! 
When  he  thought  of  the  way  she  had  returned  to 
kill  herself  there  were  moments  when  he  cursed 
and  hated  her. 

But  had  she  killed  herself?  Back  and  forth 
swung  the  inner  argument.  At  times  he  saw  clearly 

[159] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


enough  that  this  incident  joined  on  without  a  break 
to  the  texture  of  his  whole  miserable  life;  when 
he  recognized  that,  though  it  might  be  an  accident 
in  a  strictly  literal  sense  that  the  old  woman  was 
dead,  yet  it  was  the  sort  of  accident  for  which  his 
previous  existence  had  been  a  preparation.  Even 
while  he  fiercely  denied  his  guilt,  or  talked  of  it 
in  a  seizure  of  whining  prayer  that  was  essentially 
a  lying  denial,  he  knew  that  guilt  there  was. 

Would  he  be  forgiven?  There  were  comforting 
passages  in  the  Bible.  He  switched  on  the  rather 
insufficient  electric  light,  which  was  all  the  old  hotel 
provided,  for  the  day  was  too  dark  to  read  with 
out  that  help,  and  turned  the  pages  of  the  New 
Testament  through  and  through  again. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  was  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  with  the  book  open  in 
front  of  him  and  his  head  bowed,  almost  dozing. 
His  pipe,  with  which  he  had  filled  the  room  with 
the  fumes  of  tobacco,  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Per 
haps  it  was  weariness,  but  for  a  brief  period  his 
sharper  sense  of  fear  had  been  somewhat  stilled 
again.  Maybe  it  was  going  to  be  like  this — a 
gradual  easing  off  of  the  strain  in  answer  to  his 
prayers.  He  had  asked  God  for  an  answer  as  to 
whether  he  should  be  forgiven,  and  God  was  an 
swering  in  this  way,  so  he  told  himself.  God  was 
going  to  let  him  get  some  sleep,  and  maybe  when 
he  woke  everything  would  be  all  right  again — 
bearable  at  least. 

So  he  mused,  half  asleep. 
[i6oj 


Bubbles 


And  then  all  at  once  he  sprang  wide  awake 
again,  and  his  terror  wakened  with  him.  For  sud 
denly  in  front  of  his  half-shut  eyes,  coming  from 
nowhere  in  particular,  there  passed  a  puff  of 
smoke ! 

What  could  it  mean?  He  had  asked  God  for 
an  answer.  He  had  been  lulled  for  a  moment  al 
most  into  something  like  peace,  and — now — this 
puff  of  smoke!  Was  it  a  sign?  Was  it  God's 
answer? 

He  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rigid,  in  a 
cold,  still  agony  of  superstitious  fright.  He  dared 
not  move  or  turn  his  head.  He  was  afraid  that 
he  would  see — something — if  he  looked  behind 
him.  He  was  afraid  that  he  would  in  another 
moment  hear  something — a  voice ! 

He  closed  his  eyes.  He  prayed.  He  prayed 
aloud.  His  eyes  once  closed, -he  scarcely  dared 
open  them  again.  After  some  minutes  he  began 
to  tell  himself  that  perhaps  he  had  been  mistaken; 
perhaps  he  had  not  seen  smoke  at  all.  Perhaps 
even  if  he  had  seen  smoke  it  was  due  to  some  ex 
plicable  cause,  and  not  meant  for  him. 

He  greatly  dared.  He  opened  his  eyes.  And 
drifting  lazily  above  the  white  pillow  at  the  head 
of  the  bed  was  another  puff  of  smoke. 

He  rocked  back  and  forth  upon  the  bed,  with 
his  arms  up  as  if  to  shield  his  head  from  a  physi 
cal  blow,  and  then  he  passed  in  a  moment  from 
the  quakings  of  fear  to  a  kind  of  still  certainty  of 
doom.  God  was  angry  at  him.  God  was  telling 

[161] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


him  so.  God  would  send  the  devil  for  him.  There 
was  no  further  doubt.  He  would  go  to  hell — to 
hell!  To  burn  forever!  Forever — even  as  the 
old  woman  had  burned  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
He  began  to  search  through  the  pages  of  the  Bible 
again,  not  for  words  of  comfort  this  time,  but  in  a 
morbid  ecstasy  of  despair,  for  phrases  about  hell, 
for  verses  that  mentioned  fire  and  flames. 

He  did  not  need  the  concordance.  He  knew  his 
Bible  well,  and  his  fear  helped  him.  Conscious 
ness  and  subconsciousness  joined  to  guide  his  fin 
gers  and  eyes  in  the  quest. 

"Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee  to  meet 
thee  at  thy  coming,"  he  read  in  Isaiah,  and  he 
took  it  to  himself. 

"Yea,  I  will  gather  you,  and  blow  upon  you  in 
the  fire  of  my  wrath,  and  ye  shall  be  melted  in 
the  midst  thereof,"  he  read  in  Ezekiel. 

He  had  a  literal  imagination,  and  he  had  a  lit 
eral  belief,  and  at  every  repetition  of  the  word 
"fire"  the  flesh  cringed  and  crawled  on  his  bones. 
God !  To  burn !  How  it  must  hurt ! 

"And  the  God  that  answereth  by  fire,  let  Him 
be  God,"  met  his  eyes  in  the  first  book  of  Kings. 

And  it  all  meant  him.  Now  and  then  over  his 
shoulder  would  float  another  little  puff  of  smoke; 
and,  once,  lifting  his  head  suddenly  from  poring 
over  the  book,  he  thought  he  saw  something  that 
moved  and  glinted  like  a  traveling  spark,  and  was 
gone. 

He  began  to  feel  himself  in  hell  already.  This 
[162] 


Bubbles 


was  the  foretaste,  that  was  all.  Would  he  begin 
to  burn  even  before  he  died?  Did  this  smoke 
presage  something  of  that  kind?  Would  flames 
physically  seize  upon  him,  and  would  he  burn,  even 
as  the  old  woman  had  burned? 

Suddenly  in  his  hysteria  there  came  a  revulsion 
— a  revolt.  Having  reached  the  nethermost 
depths  of  despair,  he  began  to  move  upward  a 
little.  His  soul  stirred  and  took  a  step  and  tried  to 
climb.  He  began  to  pray  once  more.  After  all, 
the  Good  Book  did  promise  mercy!  He  began  to 
dare  to  pray  again.  And  he  prayed  in  a  whisper 
that  now  and  then  broke  into  a  whine — a  strange 
prayer,  characteristic  of  the  man. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  cried,  "you  promise  forgiveness 
in  that  book  there,  and  I'm  gonna  hold  you  to  it ! 
I'm  gonna  hold  you  to  it!  It's  down  there  in 
black  and  white,  your  own  words,  God,  and  I'm 
gonna  hold  you  to  it!  It's  a  contract,  God,  and 
you  ain't  the  kind  of  a  man,  God,  to  go  back  on 
a  contract  that's  down  in  black  and  white !" 

Thus  he  prayed,  with  a  naive,  unconscious  blas 
phemy.  And  after  long  minutes  of  this  sort  of 
thing  his  soul  dared  take  another  step.  A  faint, 
far  glimmering  of  hope  came  to  him  where  he 
groveled.  For  he  was  groveling  on  the  bed  now, 
with  the  covers  pulled  up  to  his  head  and  his  hand 
upon  the  open  Bible.  He  found  the  courage  to 
peer  from  beneath  the  covers  at  intervals  as  he 
prayed  and  muttered,  and  minutes  passed  with  no 
more  smoke.  Had  the  smoke  ceased?  The  sound 

[163] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


of  his  own  murmuring  voice  began  to  reassure  him. 
The  smoke  had  certainly  ceased!  It  had  been 
twenty  minutes  since  he  had  seen  it — half  an  hour! 

What  could  it  mean?  That  God  was  hearken 
ing  to  his  prayer? 

An  hour  went  by,  and  still  there  was  no  more 
sign  of  smoke.  He  prayed  feverishly,  he  gabbled, 
as  if  by  the  rapidity  of  his  utterance  and  the  re 
peated  strokes  of  his  words  he  were  beating  back 
and  holding  at  bay  the  smoke  "that  was  God's  warn 
ing  and  the  symbol  of  his  displeasure.  And  the 
smoke  had  ceased  to  come !  He  was  to  be  for 
given!  He  was  winning!  His  prayers  were  win 
ning  for  him !  At  least  God  was  listening ! 

Yes,  that  must  be  it.  God  was  listening  now. 
The  smoke  had  come  as  a  warning;  and  he  had, 
upon  receiving  this  warning,  repented.  God  had 
not  meant,  after  all,  that  he  was  doomed  irrevoc 
ably.  God  had  meant  that,  to  be  forgiven,  his 
repentance  must  be  genuine,  must  be  thorough — 
and  it  was  thorough  now.  Now  it  was  genuine ! 
And  the  smoke  had  ceased !  The  smoke  had  been 
a  sign,  and  he  had  heeded  the  sign,  and  now  if  he 
kept  up  his  prayers  and  lived  a  good  life  in  the 
future  he  was  to  be  forgiven.  He  would  not  have 
to  burn  in  hell  after  all. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  he  prayed  steadily, 
and  every  minute  that  went  by  and  brought  no 
further  sign  of  the  smoke  built  up  in  him  a  little 
more  hope,  another  grain  of  confidence. 

An  hour  and  a  quarter,  and  he  almost  dared  be 
[164] 


Bubbles 


sure  that  he  was  forgiven — but  he  was  not  quite 
sure.  If  he  could  only  be  quite  sure!  He  wal 
lowed  on  the  bed,  and  his  hand  turned  idly  the 
pages  of  the  Bible,  lying  outside  on  the  coverlet. 

More  than  an  hour  had  gone  by.  Could  he  ac 
cept  it  as  an  indication  that  God  had  indeed  heard 
him  ?  He  shifted  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  stared 
up  at  the  ceiling  through  a  chink  in  the  covers  as 
if  through  and  beyond  the  ceiling  he  were  inter 
rogating  heaven. 

And  lying  so,  there  came  a  damp  touch  upon  his 
hand,  soft  and  chill  and  silent,  as  if  it  were  deli 
cately  and  ironically  brushed  by  the  kiss  of  Death. 
A  sudden  agony  numbed  his  hand  and  arm.  With 
the  compulsion  of  hysteria,  not  to  be  resisted,  his 
head  lifted  and  he  sat  up  and  looked.  Over  the 
Bible  and  his  hand  that  lay  upon  the  open  page 
there  floated  again  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  faintly 
staining  his  fingers  and  the  paper  itself  was  some 
thing  moist  and  red.  It  stained  his  fingers  and  it 
marked  with  red  for  his  straining  sight  this  pas 
sage  of  Isaiah : 

"The  earth  also  shall  disclose  her  blood." 

It  was  then  he  cried  out,  "Oh,  God!  God! 
Again!  You  meant  it,  then,  God!  You  meant 
it!" 

VI 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Tommy  and  his 
friend  Dobson  returned  to  the  hotel.  "Your  pa 
per's  been  trying  to  get  you  for  an  hour,  Mr. 

[165] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Hawkins,"  said  the  night  clerk  when  they  came  in. 
"Story  right  in  the  next  room  to  yours.  Old  party 
in  there  hanged  himself." 

"So?"  said  Tommy.  "Ungrateful  old  guy,  he 
is!  I  put  in  the  afternoon  trying  to  cheer  him 
up  a  little." 

"Did  you  know  him?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"Nope,"  said  Tommy,  moving  toward  the  ele 
vator. 

But  a  few  moments  later,  confronted  with  the 
grotesque  spectacle  in  the  room  upstairs,  he  said, 
"Yes — I — I  know  him.  Jack!  Jack!  Get  me  out 
of  here,  Jack!  It's  Uncle  Ezra,  Jack!  He's— 
he's  come  for  me !" 


As  has  been  remarked  before,  sometimes  even 
a  bubble  may  be  a  mordant  weapon. 


— The  Chances  of  the 
Street 


—  The  Chances  of  the 
Street 


MERRIWETHER  BUCK  had  lost  all  his  money. 
Also  his  sisters',  and  his  cousins',  and  his  aunts'. 

uAt  two  o'clock  sharp  I  will  shoot  myself,"  said 
Merriwether  Buck. 

He  caressed  a  ten-shot  automatic  pistol  in  the 
right-hand  pocket  of  his  coat  as  he  loitered  up 
Broadway.  He  was  light-headed.  He  had  had 
nothing  to  eat  for  forty-eight  hours. 

"How  I  hate  you!"  said  Merriwether  Buck, 
comprehensively  to  the  city  in  general.  "If  nine 
pistol  shots  would  blot  you  out,  I'd  do  itl" 

Very  melodramatic  language,  this,  for  a  well- 
brought-up  young  man;  and  thus  indicating  that 
he  was  light-headed,  indeed.  And  as  for  the  city, 
it  continued  to  roar  and  rattle  and  honk  and 
rumble  and  squeak  and  bawl  and  shuffle  and  thun 
der  and  grate  in  the  same  old  way  —  supreme  in  its 
confidence  that  nine  pistol  shots  could  not,  by  any 
possibility,  blot  it  out.  That  is  one  of  the  most 
disconcerting  things  about  a  city;  you  become  en 
raged  at  it,  and  the  city  doesn't  even  know  it. 
Unless  you  happen  to  be  Nero  it  is  very  difficult 
to  blot  them  out  satisfactorily. 

[169] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


It  was  one  o'clock.  Merriwether  Buck  crossed 
the  street  at  Herald  Square  and  went  over  and 
stood  in  front  of  the  big  newspaper  office.  A 
portly  young  fellow  with  leaden  eyes  came  out  of 
the  building  and  stood  meditatively  on  the  curb 
with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  clothing  that 
clamored  shrilly  of  expense. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  ap 
proaching  him,  "but  are  you,  by  any  chance,  a  re 
porter?'1 

"Uh,"  grunted  the  young  man,  frigidly  affirma 
tive. 

"I  can  put  you  in  the  way  of  a  good  story," 
said  Merriwether  Buck,  obeying  an  impulse :  We 
may  live  anonymously  but  most  of  us  like  to  feel 
that  it  will  make  a  little  stir  when  we  die. 

"Huh,"  remarked  the  reporter. 

"At  two  o'clock,"  persisted  Merriwether  Buck, 
"I  am  going  to  shoot  myself." 

The  reporter  looked  bored;  his  specialty  was 
politics. 

"Are  you  anybody  in  particular?"  he  asked,  dis- 
couragingly. 

"No,"  confessed  Merriwether  Buck.  It  didn't 
seem  to  be  worth  while  to  mention  that  he  was  one 
of  the  Bucks  of  Bucktown,  Merriwether  County, 
Georgia. 

"I  thought,"  said  the  reporter,  with  an  air  of 
rebuke,  "that  you  said  it  was  a  good  story." 

"I  am,  at  least,  a  human  being,"  said  Merri 
wether  Buck,  on  the  defensive. 

[170] 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 


"They're  cheap,  hereabout,"  returned  the  other, 
in  the  manner  of  a  person  who  has  estimated  a 
good  many  assorted  lots. 

"You  are  callous,"  said  Merriwether  Buck. 
"Callous  to  the  soul !  What  are  you,  but — but — 
Why,  you  are  New  York  incarnate !  That  is  what 
you  are !  And  I  think  I  will  shoot  you  first !" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  spoil  sport,"  said  the  re 
porter,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  allow  it.  I  have 
a  rather  important  assignment." 

Merriwether  played  with  the  little  automatic 
pistol  in  his  pocket.  It  was  not  any  regard  for 
the  consequences  that  deterred  him  from  shooting 
the  portly  young  man.  But  in  his  somewhat  dizzy 
brain  a  fancy  was  taking  shape;  a  whim  worked 
in  him.  He  drew  his  hand  empty  from  the  pocket, 
and  that  reporter  came  up  out  of  the  grave. 

"I  am  hungry,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  in 
obedience  to  the  whim. 

"Now  that  you  remind  me  of  it,"  said  the  other, 
his  lack-luster  eyes  lighting  up  a  little,  "so  am  I !" 
And  he  crossed  the  street  and  disappeared  through 
the  swinging  doors  of  a  cafe. 

Callous,  leaden-eyed  young  man!  epitome  of 
this  hard  town!  So  cried  the  spirit  of  Merri 
wether  Buck;  and  then  he  spoke  aloud,  formulat 
ing  his  idea : 

"New  York,  you  are  on  trial.  You  are  in  the 
balances.  I  give  you  an  hour.  If  I'm  asked  to 
lunch  by  two  o'clock,  all  right.  If  not,  I  will  kill 
myself,  first  carefully  shooting  down  the  most 

[171] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


prosperous  citizens,  and  as  many  of  'em  as  I  can 
reach.     New  York,  it's  up  to  you !" 

The  idea  of  playing  it  out  that  way  tickled  him 
to  the  heart;  he  had  always  loved  games  of  chance. 
One  man  or  woman  out  of  all  the  prosperous 
thousands  in  the  streets  might  save  another  pros 
perous  half-dozen;  might  save  as  many  as  he  could 
otherwise  reach  with  nine  shots  from  his  pistol, 
for  he  would  reserve  the  tenth  for  himself.  Other 
wise,  there  should  be  a  sacrifice;  he  would  offer  up 
a  blood  atonement  for  the  pagan  city's  selfishness. 
Giddy  and  feverish,  and  drunk  with  the  sense  of 
his  power  to  slay,  he  beheld  himself  as  a  kind  of 
grotesque  priest — and  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  at  the  maniac  conceit. 

A  woman  who  was  passing  turned  at  the  sound, 
and  their  eyes  met.  She  smiled.  Merriwether 
Buck  was  good  to  look  at.  So  was  she.  She  was 
of  that  type  of  which  men  are  certain  at  once,  with 
out  quite  knowing  why;  while  women  are  often 
puzzled,  saying  to  themselves:  "After  all,  it  may 
be  only  her  rings." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  over 
taking  her,  "but  you  and  I  are  to  lunch  together, 
aren't  we?" 

"I  like  your  nerve !"  said  she.  And  she  laughed. 
It  was  evident  that  she  did  like  it.  "Where?"  she 
asked  briefly,  falling  into  step  beside  him. 

"Wherever  you  like,"  said  Merriwether.  "I 
leave  that  to  you,  as  I'm  depending  on  you  to  pay 
the  check." 

[172] 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 


She  began  a  doubtful  laugh,  and  then,  seeing 
that  it  wasn't  a  joke,  repeated: 

"I  like  your  nerve!"  And  it  was  now  evident 
that  she  didn't  like  it. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  "my 
clothes  look  all  right  yet,  but  I'm  broke.  I'm 
hungry.  I  haven't  had  anything  to  eat  since  day 
before  yesterday.  I'm  not  kidding  you ;  it's  true. 
You  looked  like  a  good  fellow  to  me,  and  I  took 
a  chance.  Hunger"  (as  he  spoke  it  he  seemed  to 
remember  having  heard  the  remark  before) ,  "hun 
ger  makes  one  a  judge  of  faces;  I  gambled  on 
yours." 

She  wasn't  complimented;  she  regarded  him 
with  a  manner  in  which  scorn  and  incredulity  were 
blended;  Merriwether  Buck  perceived  that,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  she  was  insulted. 

"Don't,"  she  said,  "don't  pull  any  of  that  sen 
timental  stuff  on  me.  I  thought  you  was  a  gentle 


man!' 


And  she  turned  away  from  him.  He  took  a 
step  in  pursuit  and  started  to  renew  his  plea ;  for  he 
was  determined  to  play  his  game  square  and  give 
the  directing  deities  of  the  city  a  fair  chance  to 
soften  whatsoever  random  heart  they  would. 

"Beat  it!"  she  shrilled,  "beat  it,  you  cheap 
grafter,  or  I'll  call  a  cop !" 

And  Merriwether  beat  it;  nor'  by  nor' west  he 
beat  it,  as  the  street  beats  it;  as  the  tides  beat. 
The  clock  on  the  Times  building  marked  1.20  as 

[i73l 


Carter  and  Other  People 


he  paused  by  the  subway  station  there.  In  forty 
minutes — just  the  time  it  takes  to  hook  your  wife's 
dress  or  put  a  girdle  round  the  world — Merri- 
wether  Buck  would  be  beating  it  toward  eternity, 
shooing  before  him  a  flock  of  astonished  ghosts 
of  his  own  making.  Twenty  minutes  had  gone  by 
and  whatever  gods  they  be  that  rule  New  York 
had  made  no  sign ;  perhaps  said  gods  were  out  at 
lunch  or  gone  to  Coney  Island.  Twice  twenty 
minutes  more,  and 

But  no.  It  is  all  over  now.  It  must  be.  There 
emerges  from  the  subway  station  one  who  is  un 
mistakably  a  preacher.  The  creases  of  his  face 
attest  a  smiling  habit;  no  doubt  long  years  of  doing 
good  have  given  it  that  stamp ;  the  puffs  of  white 
hair  above  the  temples  add  distinction  to  be 
nignity. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Merriwether  Buck, 
ubut  are  you  a  minister?" 

"Eh?"  said  the  reverend  gentleman,  adjusting 
a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses.  "Yes,"  he  said 
pleasantly,  "I  am,"  and  he  removed  the  glasses 
and  put  them  back  on  once  again,  as  he  spoke. 
Somehow,  the  way  he  did  it  was  a  benediction. 

"I  am  hungry,"  said  Merriwether. 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  reverend  gentleman.  "I 
shouldn't  have  thought  it." 

"Will  you  ask  me  to  lunch?" 

"Eh?"  It  was  an  embarrassing  question;  but 
the  gentleman  was  all  good  nature.  His  air  indi 
cated  that  he  did  not  intend  to  let  his  own  embar- 

[i74l 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 

_______ — — — — — — — — — ^— — — — — — — — 

rassment  embarrass  Merriwether  too  much.  "My 

dear  man,  you  know — really "  He  placed  a 

shapely  hand  upon  Merriwether' s  shoulder,  rally- 
ingly,  almost  affectionately,  and  completed  the  sen 
tence  with  a  laugh. 

"It's  charity  I'm  asking  for,"  said  Merriwether. 

"Oh!"  For  some  reason  he  seemed  vastly  re 
lieved.  "Have  you  been — but,  dear  me,  are  you 
sure  you  aren't  joking?" 

"Yes;  sure." 

"And  have  you — ahem! — have  you  sought  aid 
from  any  institution;  any  charitable  organization, 
you  know?" 

"But  no,"  said  Merriwether,  who  had  instinc 
tively  eliminated  charitable  organizations,  free 
lunches  and  police  stations  from  the  terms  of  his 
wager,  "I  thought " 

"My,  my,  my,"  hummed  the  reverend  gentle 
man,  interrupting  him.  He  produced  his  card  case 
and  took  a  card  therefrom.  "I  am  going,"  he 
said,  writing  on  the  card  with  a  pencil,  "to  give  you 
lmy  card  to  the  secretary  of  the  Combined  Chari 
ties.  Excellent  system  they  have  there.  You'll 
be  investigated,  you  know,"  he  said  brightly,  as  if 
that  were  an  especial  boon  he  was  conferring, 
"your  record  looked  into — character  and  ante 
cedents  and  all  that  sort  of  thing!" 

"And  fed?"  asked  Merriwether. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  And  he  handed  over  the  card 
as  if  he  were  giving  Merriwether  the  keys  to  the 
city — but  not  too  gross  and  material  a  city  either; 

[175] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Merri wether  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  being  bap 
tized. 

"But,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  "I  wanted  you 
to  feed  me !" 

"Oh,  my  dear  man !"  smiled  the  minister,  "I  am 
doing  it,  you  know.  I'm  a  subscriber — do  all  my 
charitable  work  this  way.  Saves  time.  Well, 
good-by."  And  he  nodded  cheerily. 

"But,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  "aren't  you  in 
terested  in  me  personally?  Don't  you  want  to 
hear  my  story?" 

"Story?  Story?"  hummed  the  other.  "Indeed, 
but  they'll  learn  your  story  there  !  They  have  the 
most  excellent  system  there ;  card  system ;  cases  and 
case  numbers,  you  know — Stories,  bless  you  1 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  stories !  Big  file  cases  1 
You'll  be  number  so-and-so.  Really,"  he  said, 
with  a  beaming  enthusiasm,  "they  have  a  wonder 
ful  system.  Well,  good-by!"  There  was  a  touch 
of  finality  in  his  pleasant  tone,  but  Merriwether 
caught  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "haven't  you  even  got  any 
curiosity  about  me?  Don't  you  even  want  to  know 
why  I'm  hungry?  Can't  you  find  time  yourself 
to  listen  to  the  tale?" 

"Time,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman,  "time  is 
just  what  I  feel  the  lack  of — feel  it  sadly,  at  mo 
ments  like  these,  sadly."  He  sighed,  but  it  was 
an  optimistic,  good-humored  sort  of  sigh.  "But 
I  tell  you  what  you  do."  He  drew  forth  another 
card  and  scribbled  on  it.  "If  you  want  to  tell  me 

[176] 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 


your  story  so  very  badly — (dear  me,  what  remark 
able  situations  the  clerical  life  lets  one  in  for!)  — 
so  very  badly,  take  this  card  to  my  study  about 
3.30.  You'll  find  my  stenographer  there  and  you 
can  dictate  it  to  her;  she'll  type  it  out.  Yes,  in 
deed,  she'll  type  it  out!  Well,  ^<W-by!" 

And  with  a  bright  backward  nod  he  was  off. 

It  was  1.25.  There  were  thirty-five  minutes 
more  of  life.  Merriwether  Buck  gave  the  rever 
end  gentleman's  cards  to  a  seedy  individual  who 
begged  from  him,  with  the  injunction  to  go  and 
get  himself  charitably  Bertilloned  like  a  gentleman 
and  stop  whining,  and  turned  eastward  on  Forty- 
second  Street.  If  you  have  but  thirty-five  min 
utes  of  life,  why  not  spend  them  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
where  sightly  things  abound? — indeed,  if  you  hap 
pen  to  be  a  homicidal  maniac  of  some  hours  stand 
ing,  like  Merriwether  Buck,  Fifth  Avenue  should 
be  good  hunting  ground;  the  very  place  to  mark 
the  fat  and  greasy  citizens  of  your  sacrifice. 

Time,  the  only  patrician,  will  not  step  lively  for 
the  pert  subway  guards  of  human  need,  nor  yet 
slacken  pace  for  any  bawling  traffic  cop  of  man's 
desire;  he  comes  of  an  old  family  too  proud  to 
rush,  too  proud  to  wait;  a  fine  old  fellow  with  a 
sense  of  his  own  value.  Time  walked  with  Merri 
wether  Buck  as  he  loitered  up  Fifth  Avenue,  for 
the  old  gentleman  loves  to  assist  personally  at 
these  little  comedies,  sometimes;  with  Death  a 
hang-dog  third.  Not  even  a  fly-cop  took  note  of 
the  trio,  although  several,  if  they  robbed  a  jewelry 

[177] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


store  or  anything  like  that,  would  tell  the  reporters 
later  that  they  had  noticed  something  suspicious 
at  the  time.  And  the  patron  deities  of  New  York 
City  might  have  been  over  in  Hoboken  playing 
pinochle  for  all  the  heed  they  took. 

Which  brings  us  to  Sixty-fifth  Street  and  1.58 
o'clock  and  the  presence  of  the  great  man,  all  at 
once. 

When  Merriwether  Buck  first  saw  him,  Meri- 
wether  Buck  gasped.  He  couldn't  believe  it.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  a  thing  that  might  not  happen  again 
this  year  or  next  year  or  in  five  years — J.  Dupont 
Evans,  minus  bulwark  or  attendant,  even  minus 
his  habitual  grouch,  walking  leisurely  toward  him 
like  any  approachable  and  common  mortal.  Mer 
riwether  Buck  might  well  be  incredulous.  But 
it  was  he;  the  presentment  of  that  remarkable 
face  has  been  printed  a  hundred  thousand  times; 
it  is  as  well  known  to  the  world  at  large  as  Uncle 
Pete  Watson's  cork  leg  is  on  the  streets  of  Prairie 
Centre,  111. ;  it  is  unmistakable. 

To  have  J.  Dupont  Evans  at  the  point  of  a  pis 
tol  might  almost  intoxicate  some  sane  and  well- 
fed  men,  and  Merriwether  Buck  was  neither.  J. 
Dupont  Evans — the  wealth  of  Croesus  would  be 
just  one  cracked  white  chip  in  the  game  he  plays. 
But  at  this  moment  his  power  and  his  importance 
had  been  extraordinarily  multiplied  by  circum 
stances.  The  chances  of  the  street  had  tumbled 
down  a  half  dozen  banks — (well  did  Merriwether 
Buck  know  that,  since  it  had  ruined  him) — and  fi- 

[178] 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 


nancial  panic  was  in  the  air;  an  epochal  and  stag 
gering  disaster  threatened;  and  at  this  juncture  a 
president  in  no  wise  humble  had  publicly  confessed 
his  own  impotence  and  put  it  up  to  J.  Dupont 
Evans  to  avert,  to  save,  to  reassure. 

Merriwether  Buck  had  not  dreamed  of  this ;  in 
the  crook  of  his  trigger  finger  lay,  not  merely  the 
life  of  a  man,  but  the  immediate  destiny  of  a  na 
tion. 

He  grasped  the  pistol  in  his  pocket,  and  aimed 
it  through  the  cloth. 

"Do  you  know  what  time  it  is?"  he  asked  J. 
Dupont  Evans,  politely  enough. 

It  was  only  a  second  before  the  man  answered. 
But  in  that  second  Merriwether  Buck,  crazily  ex 
alted,  and  avid  of  the  sensation  he  was  about  to 
create,  had  a  swift  vision.  He  saw  bank  after 
bank  come  crashing  down;  great  railroad  systems 
ruined;  factories  closed  and  markets  stagnant; 
mines  shut  and  crops  ungathered  in  the  fields ;  ships 
idle  at  the  wharves ;  pandemonium  and  ruin  every 
where. 

"Huh?"  said  J.  Dupont  Evans,  gruffly,  remov 
ing  an  unlighted  cigar  from  his  mouth.  He  looked 
at  Merriwether  Buck  suspiciously,  and  made  as 
if  to  move  on.  But  he  thought  better  of  it  the 
next  instant,  evidently,  for  he  pulled  out  a  plain 
silver  watch  and  said  grudgingly:  "Two  minutes 
of  two."  And  then,  in  a  tone  less  unpleasant,  he 
asked:  "Have  you  got  a  match,  young  man?" 

Merriwether  fumbled  in  his  vest  pocket.  In  a 
[179] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


minute  and  a  half  he  would  perfunctorily  ask  this 
man  for  lunch,  and  then  he  would  kill  him.  But 
he  would  give  him  a  match  first — for  Merriwether 
Buck  was  a  well-brought-up  young  man.  As  he 
fumbled  he  picked  out  the  exact  spot  on  the  other's 
waistcoat  where  he  would  plant  the  bullet.  But 
the  idea  of  a  man  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  lighting 
a  cigar  tickled  him  so  that  he  laughed  aloud  as 
he  held  out  the  matches. 

"What  can  I  do  with  these?"  snorted  J.  Dupont 
Evans.  "They  are  the  sort  that  light  only  on  their 
own  box."  From  his  glance  one  might  have  gained 
the  impression  that  he  thought  Merriwether  Buck 
a  fool. 

"Great  principle  that,"  said  Merriwether  Buck, 
cackling  with  hysteria.  It  was  so  funny  that  a 
dead  man  should  want  to  smoke  a  cigar!  He 
would  let  him  play  he  was  alive  for  fifty  seconds 
longer. 

"Principle?"  said  Evans.  "Principle?  What 
Principle?" 

"Well,"  said  Merriwether,  with  the  random 
argumentativeness  of  insanity,  "it  is  a  great  prin 
ciple.  Apply  that  principle  to  some  high  explosive, 
for  instance,  and  you  have  no  more  battleship 
flare-backs — no  premature  mine  blasts " 

"Say,"  the  other  suddenly  interrupted,  "are  you 
an  inventor?" 

"Yes,"  lied  Merriwether  Buck,  glibly,  although 
he  had  never  given  five  seconds'  thought  to  the  sub 
ject  of  high  explosives  in  his  life.  "That's  how  I 

[180] 


The  Chances  of  the  Street 


know.  I've  invented  an  explosive  more  powerful 
than  dynamite.  But  it  won't  explode  by  contact 
with  fire,  like  powder.  Won't  explode  with  a  jar, 
like  dynamite.  Won't  freeze,  like  dynamite. 
Only  one  way  to  explode  it — you've  got  to  bring 
it  into  contact  with  a  certain  other  chemical  the 
same  as  scratching  one  of  these  matches  on  its 
own  box." 

"The  deuce,  young  man!"  said  the  other. 
"There's  a  fortune  in  it!  Is  it  on  the  market  at 
all?" 

"No,"  said  Merriwether  Buck,  raising  his  pistol 
hand  slightly  and  thrusting  it  a  bit  forward,  under 
the  mask  of  his  coat  pocket,  "no  money  to  start  it 
going." 

"Hum,"  mused  the  other.  "I  tell  you  what  you 
do,  young  man.  You  come  along  to  lunch  with 
me  and  we'll  talk  the  thing  over — money  and  all." 

And  the  directing  deities  of  New  York  struck 
wice  on  all  the  city  clocks,  and  striking,  winked. 


. — The  Professor's 

Awakening 


IX.— The  Professor's 

Awakening 


How  I  ever  come  to  hit  such  a  swell-looking 
house  for  a  handout  I  never  knew.  Not  that  there 
was  anything  so  gaudy  about  it,  neither,  as  far 
as  putting  up  a  bluff  at  being  a  millionaire's  man 
sion  went,  which  I  found  out  afterwards  it  was, 
or  pretty  near  that  at  any  rate.  But  it  was  just 
about  the  biggest  house  in  that  Illinois  town,  and 
it's  mostly  that  kind  o'  place  with  them  naked 
iron  heathens  in  the  front  yard  and  a  brick  stable 
behind  that  it  ain't  no  use  to  go  up  against  unless 
you're  looking  for  a  lemon.  If  you  need  real  food 
and  need  it  sudden  and  ain't  prospecting  around 
town  for  no  other  kind  of  an  opening  you  better 
make  for  the  nearest  public  works  like  a  canal 
being  dug,  or  a  railroad  gang.  Hit  the  little  tin 
dinner  buckets,  men  that  does  the  unskilled  labor 
on  jobs  like  that,  except  Swedes  and  Dagos,  know 
ing  what  it  is  to  be  up  against  it  themselves  now 
and  then  and  not  inclined  to  ask  no  fool  ques 
tions. 

Well,  I  went  around  to  the  back  door,  and 
[185] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Biddy  Malone  she  lets  me  in.  I  found  out  that 
was  her  name  afterwards,  but  as  soon  as  I  seen 
her  face  I  guessed  if  her  name  wasn't  Bridget  it 
was  Nora.  It's  all  in  the  first  look  they  give  you 
after  they  open  the  door.  If  that  look's  right 
they're  coming  across  and  you'll  get  some  kind  of 
a  surprise  for  your  digestive  ornaments  and  you 
don't  need  to  make  no  fool  breaks  about  sawing 
wood  neither.  I  makes  my  little  talk  and  Biddy 
she  says  come  in ;  and  into  the  kitchen  I  went. 

"It's  Minnesota  you're  working  towards,"  says 
Biddy,  pouring  me  out  a  cup  of  coffee. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  wheat  harvest  where 
there's  thousands  makes  for  every  fall.  But  not 
for  me,  I  never  did  like  to  work  for  none  of  them 
Scandiluvian  Swedes  and  Norwegians  that  gets 
into  the  field  before  daylight  and  stays  at  it  so 
long  the  hired  men  got  to  milk  the  cows  by  moon 
light.  They  got  no  sense  of  proportion,  them 
Gusses  and  Oles  ain't. 

"I  been  across  the  river  into  I'way,"  I  says, 
"working  at  my  trade,  and  I'm  going  back  to  Chi 
cago  to  work  at  it  some  more." 

"And  what  may  your  trade  be?"  says  Biddy, 
sizing  me  up  careful.  I  seen  I  made  a  hit  some 
how  or  she  wouldn't  of  asked  me  in  the  first  place 
was  I  going  to  the  wheat  harvest,  but  would  of 
just  supposed  I  was  a  hobo,  which  I  ain't.  I  got 
a  lot  of  trades  when  I  want  to  use  one,  and  as  a 
regular  thing  I  rather  work  at  one  of  them  for  a 
while,  too,  but  can't  stand  it  very  long  on  account 

[186] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


of  not  feeling  right  to  stay  in  one  place  too  long, 
especially  in  the  summer.  When  I  seen  I  made  a 
hit  with  Biddy  I  thinks  I'll  hand  her  a  good  one  she 
never  heard  tell  of  before. 

"I'm  an  agnostic  by  trade,"  I  says.  I  spotted 
that  one  in  a  Carnegie  library  one  time  and  that 
was  the  first  chance  I  ever  had  to  spring  it. 

"I  see,"  says  Biddy.  And  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  mouth  to  once.  I  seen  she  didn't  see,  but  I 
didn't  help  her  none.  She  would  of  rather  killed 
herself  than  let  on  she  didn't  see.  Most  of  the 
Irish  is  like  that  whether  they  is  kitchen  mechan 
ics  or  what.  After  a  while  she  says,  pouring  me 
out  some  more  coffee  and  handing  me  a  little 
glass  jar  full  of  watermelon  rinds  boiled  in  with 
molasses  and  things,  she  says : 

"And  ain't  that  the  dangerous  thing  to  work 
at,  though!" 

"It  is,"  I  says,  and  says  nothing  further. 

She  sets  down  and  folds  her  arms  like  she  was 
thinking  about  it,  watching  my  hands  all  the  time 
as  if  she  was  looking  for  scars  where  something 
slipped  when  I  done  that  agnostic  work.  Finally 
she  says  with  a  sigh: 

"Sure,  and  it's  dangerous!  Me  brother  Patrick 
was  kilt  at  it  in  the  old  country.  He  was  the  most 
vinturesome  lad  of  thim  all!" 

She  was  putting  up  a  stiff  front,  and  for  a  min 
ute  I  don't  know  whether  she's  stringing  me  or 
I'm  stringing  her.  The  Irish  is  like  that.  So 
being  through  eating  I  says : 

[187] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Did  it  fly  up  and  hit  him?" 

She  looks  at  me  scornful  and  tosses  her  chin 
up  and  says: 

"No.  He  fell  off  of  it.  And  I'm  thinking  you 
don't  know  what  one  of  them  is,  after!" 

"What  is  it,  then?"  says  I. 

"Then  you  don't  know,"  says  she;  and  the  next 
thing  I  knew  I'd  been  eased  out  the  back  door  and 
she  was  grinning  at  me  through  the  crack  of  it 
with  superiousness  all  over  her  face. 

So  I  was  walking  slow  around  towards  the 
front  thinking  to  myself  how  the  Irish  was  a 
great  people ;  and  shall  I  go  to  Chicago  and  maybe 
get  a  job  sailing  on  the  lakes  till  navigation  closes, 
or  shall  I  go  back  to  Omaha  and  work  in  the  rail 
road  yards  again,  which  I  don't  like  much,  or 
shall  I  go  on  down  to  Saint  Looey  just  to  see 
what's  doing.  And  then  I  thinks:  "Billy,  you 
was  a  fool  to  let  that  circus  walk  off  and  leave 
you  asleep  with  nothing  over  you  but  a  barb  wire 
fence  this  morning,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do 
now?  First  thing  you  know  you'll  be  a  regular 
hobo,  which  some  folks  can't  distinguish  you  ain't 
now."  And  then  I  thinks  I'll  go  down  to  the  river 
and  take  a  swim  and  lazy  around  in  the  grass  a 
while  and  think  things  over  and  maybe  something 
will  happen.  Anyways,  you  can  always  join  the 
army.  And  just  when  I  was  thinking  that  I  got 
by  one  of  them  naked  stone  heathens  that  was 
squirting  water  out  of  a  sea  shell  and  a  guy  comes 
down  the  front  steps  on  the  jump  and  nabs  me  by 

[i88J    ' 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


the  coat  collar.  I  seen  he  was  a  doctor  or  else  a 
piano  tuner  by  the  satchel  he  dropped  when  he 
grabbed  me. 

"Did  you  come  out  of  this  house  ?"  he  says. 

"I  did,"  I  says,  wondering  what  next. 

"Back  in  you  goes,"  he  says,  marching  me  to 
wards  the  front  steps.  "They've  got  smallpox  in 
there." 

I  liked  to  a-jumped  loose  when  he  said  that,  but 
he  twisted  my  coat  collar  and  dug  his  thumbs 
into  my  neck  and  I  seen  they  wasn't  no  use  pulling 
back.  If  a  guy  that's  knocking  around  mixes  up 
with  one  of  the  solid  citizens  the  magistrate's  go 
ing  to  give  htm  the  worst  of  it  on  principle.  I  ain't 
no  hobo  and  never  was,  and  never  traveled  much 
with  none  of  them  professional  bums,  but  there 
has  been  times  I  had  hard  work  making  some  peo 
ple  believe  it.  I  seen  I  couldn't  jerk  away  and 
I  seen  I  couldn't  fight  and  so  I  went  along.  He 
rung  the  door  bell,  and  I  says : 

"Smallpox  ain't  no  inducement  to  me,  doc." 

"No?"  says  he.  And  the  door  opened,  and  in 
we  went.  The  girl  that  opened  it,  she  drew  back 
when  she  seen  me. 

"Tell  Professor  Booth  that  Dr.  Wilkins  wants 
to  see  him,"  says  the  doc,  not  letting  loose  of 
me. 

And  we  stood  there  saying  nothing  till  the  per- 
fessor  come  in,  which  he  did  slow  and  absent- 
minded.  When  he  seen  me  he  stopped  and  took 
off  a  pair  of  thick  glasses  that  was  split  in  two  like 

[189] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


a  mended  show  case,  so  he  could  see  me  better,  and 
he  says: 

"What  is  that  you  have  there,  Dr.  Wilkins?" 

"A  guest  for  you,"  says  Dr.  Wilkins,  grinning 
all  over  himself.  "I  caught  him  leaving  the  house, 
and  you  being  under  quarantine  and  me  being  sec 
retary  to  the  board  of  health,  I'll  have  to  ask  you 
to  keep  him  here  until  we  can  get  Miss  Margery 
on  her  feet  again,"  he  says.  Or  they  was  words 
to  that  effect,  as  the  lawyers  asks  you. 

"Dear  me,"  says  Perfessor  Booth,  kind  o'  hety- 
lesslike.  And  he  put  his  glasses  on  and  took  them 
off  again,  and  come  up  close  and  looked  at  me  like 
I  was  one  of  them  amphimissourian  specimens  in 
a  free  museum.  "Dear  me,"  he  says,  looking 
worrieder  and  worrieder  all  the  time.  And  then 
he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  pipes  out  in 
a  voice  that  was  so  flat-chested  and  bleached-out  it 
would  a-looked  just  like  him  if  you  could  a-saw 
it— "Estelle,"  he  says,  "O  Estellel" 

I  thinks  the  perfessor  is  one  of  them  folks  that 
can  maybe  do  a  lot  of  high-class  thinking,  but  has 
got  to  have  some  one  tell  'em  what  the  answer  is. 
But  I  doped  him  out  wrong  as  I  seen  later  on. 

Estelle,  she  come  down  stairs  looking  like  she 
was  the  perfessor's  big  brother.  I  found  out  later 
she  was  his  old  maid  sister.  She  wasn't  no  spring 
chicken,  Estelle  wasn't,  and  they  was  a  continuous 
grin  on  her  face.  I  figgered  it  must  of  froze  there 
years  and  years  ago.  They  was  a  kid  about  ten 
or  eleven  years  old  come  along  down  with  her, 

[190] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


that  had  hair  down  to  its  shoulders  and  didn't 
look  like  it  knowed  whether  it  was  a  girl  or  a  boy. 
Miss  Estelle,  she  looks  me  over  in  a  way  that 
makes  me  shiver,  while  the  doctor  and  the  per- 
fessor  jaws  about  whose  fault  it  is  the  smallpox 
sign  ain't  been  hung  out.  And  when  she  was  done 
listening  she  says  to  the  perfessor:  "You  had  bet 
ter  go  back  to  your  laboratory."  And  the  per 
fessor  he  went  along  out,  and  the  doctor  with 
him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  Aunt 
Estelle?"  the  kid  asks  her. 

"What  would  you  suggest,  William  Dear?"  asks 
his  aunt.  I  ain't  feeling  very  comfortable,  and  I 
was  getting  all  ready  just  to  natcherally  bolt  out 
the  front  door  now  the  doctor  was  gone.  Then  I 
thinks  it  mightn't  be  no  bad  place  to  stay  in  fur  a 
couple  o'  days,  even  risking  the  smallpox.  Fur 
I  had  ricolected  I  couldn't  ketch  it  nohow,  having 
been  vaccinated  a  few  months  before  in  Terry 
Hutt  by  compulsory  medical  advice,  me  being  tem 
porary  engaged  in  repair  work  on  the  city  pave 
ments  through  a  mistake  in  the  police  court. 

William  Dear  looks  at  me  when  his  aunt  put 
it  up  to  him  just  as  solemn  as  if  it  was  the  day  of 
judgment  and  his  job  was  separating  the  fatted 
calves  from  the  goats  and  the  prodigals,  and  he 
says: 

"Don't  you  think,  Aunt  Estelle,  we  better  cut 
his  hair  and  bathe  him  and  get  him  some  clothes 
the  first  thing?" 

[191] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"William  is  my  friend,"  thinks  I,  and  I  seen 
right  off  he  was  one  of  them  serious  kids  that  you 
can't  tell  what  is  going  on  inside  their  heads. 

So  she  calls  James,  which  was  the  butler,  and 
James  he  buttled  me  into  a  bathroom  the  like  of 
which  I  never  see  before;  and  he  buttled  me  into 
a  suit  of  somebody's  clothes  and  into  a  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house  next  to  his'n,  and  then  he 
come  back  and  buttled  a  razor  and  a  comb  and 
brush  at  me ;  him  being  the  most  mournful-looking 
fat  man  I  ever  seen,  and  he  informs  me  that  me 
not  being  respectable  I  will  eat  alone  in  the  kitchen 
after  the  servants  is  done.  People  has  made  them 
errors  about  me  before.  And  I  looks  around  the 
room  and  I  thinks  to  myself  that  this  is  all  right 
so  far  as  it  has  went.  But  is  these  four  walls, 
disregarding  the  rest  of  the  house,  to  be  my  home, 
and  them  only?  Not,  thinks  I,  if  little  Billy 
knows  it.  It  was  not  me  that  invited  myself  to 
become  the  guest  of  this  family;  and  if  I  got  to 
be  a  guest  I  be  damned  if  I  don't  be  one  according 
to  Hoyle's  rules  of  etiquette  or  I'll  quit  the  job. 
Will  I  stay  in  this  one  room?  Not  me.  Suppose 
the  perfessor  takes  it  next?  And  then  William 
Dear?  And  suppose  when  William  Dear  gets 
through  with  it  he  gives  it  to  Aunt  Estelle?  Am 
I  to  waste  the  golden  hours  when,  maybe,  my  coun 
try  needs  me,  just  for  accommodation?  But  I 
thinks  it's  all  right  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  I'll 
leave  my  regrets  and  go  on  down  to  Saint  Looey 
or  somewheres.  And  then  James  he  buttles  back 

[192] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


into  the  room  like  a  funeral  procession  and  says 
the  perfessor  says  he  wants  to  see  me  in  the  labor 
atory. 

That  was  a  big  room  and  the  darndest  looking 
room  I  ever  see,  and  it  smelt  strong  enough  to 
chase  a  Hungarian  pig  sticker  out  of  a  Chicago 
slaughter  house.  It  smelt  like  a  drug  store  had 
died  of  old  age  and  got  buried  in  a  glue  factory. 
I  never  seen  so  much  scientific  effusions  and  the 
things  to  hold  'em  in  mixed  up  in  one  place  be 
fore.  They  must  of  been  several  brands  of  science 
being  mixed  up  there  all  to  once.  They  was  dinky 
little  stoves,  they  was  glass  jars  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes  labeled  with  Dago  names  standing  around 
on  shelves  like  in  one  of  them  Dutch  delicatessen 
stores ;  they  was  straight  glass  tubes  and  they  was 
glass  tubes  that  had  the  spinal  contortions;  they 
was  bones  and  they  was  whole  skeletons,  and  they 
was  things  that  looked  like  whisky  stills ;  they  was 
a  bookcase  full  of  bugs  and  butterflies  against  one 
wall;  they  was  chunks  of  things  that  might  have 
been  human  for  all  I  know  floating  around  in  vats 
like  pickled  pork  in  a  barrel ;  they  was  beer  schoon 
ers  with  twisted  spouts  to  them;  they  was  micro 
scopes  and  telescopes  and  twenty-seven  shapes  and 
sizes  of  knives;  they  was  crates  of  stuff  that  was 
unpacked  and  crates  that  wasn't;  and  they  was 
tables  with  things  just  piled  and  spilled  over  'em, 
every  which  way,  and  the  looks  of  everything  was 
dirty  on  account  of  the  perfessor  not  allowing  any 
one  in  there  but  himself  and  Miss  Estelle  and 

[193] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


William.  And  whether  you  knowed  anything 
about  them  different  brands  of  science  or  not  you 
could  see  the  perfessor  was  one  of  them  nuts 
that's  always  starting  to  do  things  and  then  leav 
ing  them  go  and  starting  something  else.  It  looked 
as  if  the  operating  room  of  an  emergency  hospital 
and  a  blacksmith  shop  and  a  people's  free  museum 
and  a  side  show  full  of  freaks,  snakes  and  one- 
eyed  calves  had  all  gone  out  and  got  drunk  to 
gether,  all  four  of  them,  and  wandered  into  a  cre 
mation  plant  to  sleep  off  that  souse;  and  when 
they  woke  up  they  couldn't  tell  which  was  which 
nor  nothing  else  except  they  had  a  bad  taste  in 
their  mouth  and  was  sentenced  to  stay  there  un- 
separated  and  unhappy  and  unsociable  in  each 
other's  company  for  evermore.  And  every  time 
you  turned  around  you  stepped  on  something  new, 
and  if  you  saw  a  rat  or  a  lizard  or  a  spider  you 
better  let  him  alone  for  how  was  you  going  to  tell 
he  was  dead  or  alive  till  he  crawled  up  you? 

The  perfessor,  he  was  setting  over  by  a  win 
dow,  and  he  pushed  out  another  chair  for  me  and 
he  says  sit  down. 

"You  are  a  gentleman  of  leisure?"  he  says,  with 
a  grin ;  or  words  to  that  effect. 

"I  work  at  that  sometimes,"  I  told  him,  "al 
though  it  ain't  rightly  my  trade." 

"Biddy  Malone  says  you're  an  agnostic,"  he 
says,  looking  at  me  close.  It  won't  do,  I  thinks, 
to  spring  none  of  them  agnostic  gags  on  him,  so  I 
says  nothing. 

[194] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


"I'm  one  myself,"  he  says. 

"Regular,"  I  asks  him,  "or  just  occasional ?" 

He  kind  o'  grins  again,  and  I  thinks:  "Billy, 
you're  making  a  hit  somehow." 

Then  he  says,  like  he  was  apologizing  to  some 
one  about  something:  "Being  interested  in  sociol 
ogy  and  the  lower  classes  in  general,  I  sent  for 
you  to  get  some  first-hand  observations  on  your 
train  of  mind,"  he  says.  Or  it  was  words  like 
them.  "I'm  a  sociologist,"  he  says. 

I  seen  I  made  a  hit  before  and  I  thinks  I'll  push 
my  luck,  so  I  swells  up  and  says : 

"I'm  a  kind  of  sociologist  myself." 

"Hum,"  he  says,  though tful-like.  "Indeed? 
And  your  itinerant  mode  of  subsistence  is  perse 
cuted  in  pursuit  of  your  desire  to  study  knowledge 
of  the  human  specimen  and  to  observe  wisdom 
as  to  the  ways  they  live  in  the  underworld,"  he  says. 
Or  it  was  words  to  that  effect.  I  wish  I'd  a-had 
him  wrote  them  words  down.  Then  I'd  a-had  'em 
just  right  now.  I  seen  a  bunch  of  good  words 
help  a  man  out  of  a  hole  before  this.  Words  has 
always  been  more  or  less  my  admiration;  you  can 
never  tell  what  one  of  them  long  gazaboes  is  go 
ing  to  do  till  you  spring  it  on  somebody.  So  I 
says: 

"That's  me,  perfessor.  I  likes  to  float  around 
and  see  what's  doing." 

Then  he  tells  me  that  sociology  was  how  the 
criminal  classes  and  the  lower  classes  in  general 
was  regarded  by  the  scientific  classes,  only  it's  a 

[195] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


difficult  brand  of  science  to  get  next  to,  he  says, 
on  account  of  the  lower  classes  like  me  being 
mostly  broke  out  with  environment  he  says,  un 
beknownst  even  to  theirselves.  He's  not  what 
you  would  call  a  practicing  sociologist  all  the  time, 
being  afraid,  I  suppose,  he  would  catch  it  if  he 
got  too  close  to  it;  he's  just  one  of  the  boys  that 
writes  about  it,  so  as  both  the  lower  classes  and 
the  scientific  classes  won't  make  no  bad  breaks,  he 
says. 

But  what  he  wants  of  me  just  now  ain't  got 
nothing  to  do  with  that,  he  says.  He's  been  mak 
ing  experiments  with  all  kinds  of  canned  victuals, 
that  is  put  up  with  acid  that  eats  holes  in  your 
stomach,  he  says,  and  so  long  as  I'm  going  to  be  a 
guest  he's  going  to  mix  some  of  them  acids  in  my 
chuck  and  weigh  me  after  each  meal.  He  says  I'll 
start  slow  and  easy  and  there  won't  be  nothing 
dangerous  about  it.  He's  been  practicing  on 
William  Dear  and  Miss  Estelle,  which  I  suppose 
it  was  the  acids  got  into  her  smile,  but  he's  going 
to  give  them  a  rest,  them  being  naturally  delicate. 
I  ain't  got  no  kick,  I  thinks,  and  I'm  going  to  leave 
this  place  in  a  day  or  two  anyhow.  Besides,  I 
always  was  intrusted  in  scientific  things  and  games 
of  chance  of  all  kinds. 

But  I  didn't  leave  in  a  few  days,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  I'd  been  there  a  week.  I  had  pretty 
much  the  run  of  the  house,  and  I  eat  my  meals 
with  Biddy  Malone,  the  only  uncomfortable  fea 
ture  of  being  a  guest  being  that  Miss  Estelle,  soon 

[196! 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


as  she  found  out  I  was  an  agnostic  (whatever 
brand  of  science  that  is,  which  I  never  found  out 
to  this  day,  just  having  come  across  the  word  ac 
cidental),  she  begun  to  take  charge  of  my  religion 
and  intellectuals  and  things  like  that.  She  used  .to 
try  to  cure  the  perfessor,  too,  but  she  had  to  give 
it  up  for  a  bad  job,  Biddy  says. 

Biddy,  she  says  Mrs.  Booth's  been  over  to  her 
mother's  while  this  smallpox  has  been  going  on; 
which  I  hadn't  knowed  they  was  a  Mrs.  Booth  be 
fore.  And  Biddy,  she  says  if  she  was  Mrs.  Booth 
she'd  stay  there,  too.  They's  been  a  lot  of  talk, 
anyhow,  Biddy  says,  about  Mrs.  Booth  and  some 
musician  fellow  around  town.  But  Biddy  she  likes 
Mrs.  Booth,  and  even  if  it  was  so  who  could 
blame  her? 

Things  ain't  right  around  that  house  since  Miss 
Estelle's  been  there,  which  the  perfessor's  science, 
though  worrying  to  the  nerves,  ain't  cut  much  ice 
till  about  four  years  ago  when  Miss  Estelle  come. 

But  Mrs.  Booth  she's  getting  where  she  can't 
stand  it  much  longer,  Biddy  says.  I  didn't  blame 
her  none  for  feeling  sore  about  things. 

You  can't  expect  a  woman  that's  pretty  and 
knows  it,  and  ain't  more'n  thirty-two  or  three 
years  old,  and  don't  look  it,  to  be  interested  in 
mummies  and  pickled  snakes  and  the  preservation 
of  the  criminal  classes  and  chemical  profusions, 
not  all  the  time.  And  maybe  when  she'd  ask 
the  perfessor  if  he  wasn't  going  to  take  her  to  the 
opera  he'd  ask  her  did  she  know  them  Germans 

[1971 


Carter  and  Other  People 


had  invented  a  newfangled  disease  or  that  it  was 
a  mistake  about  them  Austrians  hiding  their  heads 
in  the  sand  when  they  are  scared,  which  any  fool 
that's  ever  seen  'em  working  around  a  coal  mine 
ought  to  of  knowed.  It  wouldn't  a-been  so  bad 
if  the  perfessor  had  just  picked  out  one  brand  of 
science  and  stuck  to  it.  She  could  a-got  used  to 
any  one  kind  and  knowed  what  to  expect.  But 
maybe  this  week  the  perf essor's  bug  would  be 
ornithography,  and  he'd  be  chasing  sparrows  all 
over  the  front  lawn;  and  next  week  it  would  be 
geneology  and  he'd  be  trying  to  grow  bananas  on 
a  potato  vine.  Then  he'd  get  worried  about  the 
nigger  problem  in  the  south,  and  settle  it  all  up 
scientific  and  explain  how  ethnology  done  the 
whole  damn  thing,  lynchings  and  all,  and  it  never 
could  be  straightened  out  till  it  was  done  scien 
tific.  Every  new  gag  that  come  out  the  perfessor 
took  up  with  it,  Biddy  says;  one  time  he'd  be  fuss 
ing  around  with  gastronomy  through  a  telescope 
and  the  next  he'd  be  putting  astrology  into  Wil 
liam's  breakfast  food. 

They  was  a  row  on  all  the  time  about  the  kids, 
which  they  hadn't  been  till  Miss  Estelle  come. 
Mrs.  Booth  she  said  they  could  kill  their  own 
selves  if  they  wanted  to,  but  she  had  more  right 
than  anybody  to  say  what  went  into  William's  di 
gestive  ornaments,  and  she  didn't  ,want  him 
brought  up  scientific  nohow,  but  just  human.  He 
was  always  making  notes  on  William,  which  was 
how  William  come  to  take  so  little  interest  in  life 

[198] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


after  a  while.  But  Miss  Estelle,  she  egged  him 
on.  She  seen  he  didn't  have  no  sense  about  his 
money,  which  had  been  left  to  him  when  he  was 
a  sure  enough  perfessor  in  a  college  before  he 
quit  and  went  nuts  and  everything  begun  to  go 
wrong  between  him  and  Mrs.  Booth,  so  Miss 
Estelle  she  took  to  running  his  money  herself;  but 
she  seen  likewise  that  when  it  come  to  writing 
articles  about  William's  insides  and  intellectuals 
the  perfessor  he  was  a  genius.  Well,  maybe  he 
was;  but  Biddy  wouldn't  let  him  try  none  of  them 
laboratory  gags  on  her  though  she  just  as  soon 
be  hypnotized  and  telepathed  as  not  just  to  humor 
him.  Miss  Estelle,  she  eat  what  the  perfessor 
give  her,  and  after  a  while  she  says  she'll  take 
charge  of  the  children's  education  herself,  their 
mother  being  a  frivolous  young  thing,  and  it  was 
too  bad,  she  says,  a  genius  like  him  couldn't  a-mar- 
ried  a  noble  woman  who  would  a-understood  his 
great  work  for  humanity  and  sympathized  with  it. 
So  while  the  perfessor  filled  William  and  Miss 
Margery  up  on  new  discovered  food  and  weighed 
'em  and  probed  'em  and  sterilized  'em  and  did 
everything  else  but  put  'em  in  glass  bottles,  Miss 
Estelle  she  laid  out  courses  of  reading  matter  for 
them  and  tended  to  their  religion  and  intellectuals 
and  things  like  that.  I  reckon  they  never  was 
two  kids  more  completely  educated,  inside  and 
out.  It  hadn't  worked  much  on  Miss  Margery 
yet,  her  being  younger  than  William.  But  William 
took  it  hard  and  serious,  being  more  like  his 

[199] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


father's  family,  and  it  made  bumps  all  over  his 
head.  I  reckon  by  the  time  William  was  ten  years 
old  he  knew  more  than  a  whole  high  school,  and 
every  time  that  boy  cut  his  finger  he  just  naturally 
bled  science.  But  somehow  he  wasn't  very  chip 
per,  and  whenever  the  perfessor  would  notice  that 
he  and  Miss  Estelle  would  change  treatment. 
But  Biddy  liked  William  just  the  same,  they  hadn't 
spoiled  his  disposition  none;  and  she  said  he  seen 
a  lot  of  things  his  aunt  never  would  a-seen,  Wil 
liam  did.  One  day  when  I  first  was  a  guest  I  says 
to  his  aunt,  I  says : 

"Miss  Booth,  William  looks  kind  o'  pale  to  me 
like  he  was  getting  too  much  bringin'  up  to  the 
square  inch." 

She  acted  like  she  didn't  care  for  no  outsiders 
butting  in,  but  I  seen  she'd  noticed  it,  too,  and 
she  liked  William,  too,  in  a  kind  of  scientific  sort 
of  a  way,  and  she  says  in  a  minute : 
"What  do  you  suggest?" 

"Why,"  says  I,  "what  a  kid  like  that  needs  is 
to  roll  around  and  play  in  the  dirt  now  and  then, 
and  yell  and  holler." 

She  went  away  like  she  was  kind  o'  mad  about 
it;  but  about  an  hour  later  the  perfessor  sent  word 
for  me  to  come  down  to  the  labaratory,  and  Miss 
Estelle  was  there. 

"We  have  decided  that  there  is  something  in 
what  you  say,"  says  the  perfessor.  "Even  the 
crudest  and  most  untrained  intellectuals  has  now 
and  then  a  bright  hunch  from  which  us  men  of 

[200] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


special  knowledge  may  take  a  suggestion,"  he  says, 
or  words  to  that  effect.  And  they  was  a  whole 
lot  more,  and  they  was  more  scientific  than  that. 
I  didn't  know  I'd  done  nothing  important  like 
that,  but  when  he  told  me  all  about  it  in  science 
talk  I  seen  I  made  a  ten  strike,  though  I  should 
of  thought  anyone  could  of  saw  all  William  needed 
was  just  to  be  allowed  to  be  a  little  more  human. 

But  what  do  you  think — I  never  was  so  jarred 
in  my  life  as  I  was  the  next  day.  I  seen  Miss 
Estelle  spreading  an  oilcloth  on  the  floor,  and  then 
the  butler  come  in  and  poured  a  lot  of  nice,  clean, 
sterilized  dirt  on  to  it.  And  then  she  sent  for 
William. 

uWilliam  Dear,"  she  says,  "we  have  decided 
that  what  you  need  is  more  recreation  mixed  in 
along  with  your  intellectuals.  You  ought  to  romp 
and  play  in  the  dirt,  close  to  the  soil  and  nature, 
as  is  right  for  a  youth  of  your  age.  For  an  hour 
each  day  right  after  you  study  your  biology  and 
before  you  take  up  your  Euclid  you  will  romp  and 
play  in  this  dirt  like  a  child  of  nature,  and  frolic. 
You  may  now  begin  to  frolic,  William,  and  James 
will  gather  up  the  dirt  again  for  to-morrow's 
frolic."  Or  it  was  words  to  that  effect. 

But  William  didn't  frolic  none.  He  seen  things 
they  didn't.  He  just  looked  at  that  dirt,  and  he 
come  the  nearest  to  smiling  I  ever  seen  William 
come ;  and  then  he  come  the  nearest  to  getting  mad 
I  ever  seen  William  come.  And  then  he  says  very 
serious: 

[201] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"Aunt  Estelle,"  he  says,  "I  shall  not  frolic.  I 
have  come  to  that  place  in  my  discretions  where 
my  intellectuals  got  to  work  some  for  theirselves. 
It  is  them  intellectuals  which  you  have  trained 
that  refuses  to  be  made  ridiculous  one  hour  each 
day  between  the  biology  lesson  and  the  Euclid  les 
son  with  sand."  Those  was  not  William's  exact 
words,  which  he  always  had  down  as  slick  as  his 
pa,  but  they  was  what  he  meant.  William  was  a 
serious  kid,  but  he  seen  things  his  aunt  never  had 
no  idea  of.  And  he  never  did  frolic,  neither,  and 
all  that  nice  clean  dirt  had  to  be  throwed  out  by 
the  stable  amongst  the  unscientific  dirt  again. 

That  was  before  Biddy  Malone  told  me  about 
why  it  was  that  the  perfessor  and  his  wife  didn't 
get  along  well,  and  as  I  was  saying  I  didn't  blame 
her  none,  Miss  Estelle  having  finally  beat  her  out 
about  her  own  children,  too;  and  she  feeling  she 
didn't  scarcely  own  'em  no  more,  and  they  hardly 
daring  to  kiss  their  own  mamma  with  Miss  Es 
telle  in  the  room  because  of  germs,  so  Biddy  says. 
Biddy,  she  says  the  perfessor  is  all  right,  he's 
just  a  fool  and  don't  mean  no  harm  by  his  scien 
tific  gags,  but  Miss  Estelle  she's  a  she-devil  and 
takes  that  way  to  make  herself  the  boss  of  that 
house.  If  she  wasn't  there  Mrs.  Booth  would 
have  been  boss  and  never  let  the  perfessor  know 
it  and  things  wouldn't  a-been  so  bad.  Which 
shows  that  so  long  as  every  house  got  to  have  a 
boss  it  ain't  so  much  difference  if  it's  a  him  or  a 
her  so  long  as  it  ain't  a  relation. 

[202] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


The  perfessor  always  eats  his  dinner  in  one 
of  them  coats  with  the  open-face  vest  to  it,  and 
one  night  I  thinks  I  will,  too.  When  you  is  in 
Rome  you  does  like  the  Dagos  does,  I  thinks. 

So  I  sends  for  James  along  before  dinner  time 
and  I  says:  "Where  is  my  dinky  clothes  to  eat 
dinner  in?"  I  says. 

James  he  says  I'm  to  continue  to  eat  dinner  by 
myself.  Which  is  all  right,  I  tells  him,  but  I'll  do 
it  in  style  or  I'll  quit  the  job.  So  he  goes  and 
asks  Miss  Estelle,  and  she  comes  in  with  that 
lemon  grin  on,  but  looking,  too,  like  I  done  some 
thing  to  please  her. 

"Is  it  true,"  she  says,  "that  already  the  effects 
of  a  refined  environment  has  overcome  defections 
in  early  training  and  a  misfortune  in  ancestral 
hereditary?"  she  says.  Or  they  was  words  to  that 
effect. 

"It  is  true,"  I  says.  And  the  perfessor's  being 
too  small  she  made  James  give  me  his'n.  But 
when  I  seen  all  that  shirt  front  it  made  me  feel 
kind  of  uncomfortable,  too.  So  I  takes  them  off 
again  and  puts  on  my  old  striped  sweater  and  puts 
on  the  vest  and  coat  over  that,  and  the  effect  of 
them  red  stripes  running  crossways  is  something 
gorgeous  with  one  of  them  open-face  vests  over 
it. 

So  after  I  eat  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  and  I 
gets  a  box  of  the  perfessor's  cigars  and  goes  into 
the  library  and  thinks  I'll  see  if  he's  got  anything 
fit  to  read.  I  dig  around  for  a  while  among  them 

[203] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


shelves,  and  most  everything  is  one  brand  of 
science  or  other,  but  finally  I  got  hold  of  a  little 
book  that  was  real  interesting.  That  was  the 
damndest  book !  It  was  all  in  rhyme,  with  the  ex 
planations  of  the  rhyme  printed  in  real  talk  down 
the  sides  so  as  you  could  tell  where  you  was  at 
and  what  it  was  about.  It's  about  an  Ancient 
Mariner.  The  nut  that  wrote  it  he's  never  been 
sailing  none,  I  bet;  but  he  can  make  you  feel  like 
you  been  going  against  the  hop  in  one  of  them 
Chink  joints.  Of  course,  there  ain't  nothing  real 
literary  about  it  like  one  of  them  Marie  Corelli 
stories  I  read  once  and  it  ain't  got  the  excitement 
of  a  good  Bill  Hart  movie  or  a  Nick  Carter  story, 
but  I  got  real  interested  in  it.  The  I-man  of  that 
story  he  was  a  Jonah  to  the  whole  ship.  He  seen 
an  albatross  circling  around,  and  he  up  with  his 
air  gun  and  give  him  his'n.  It  wasn't  for  nothing 
to  eat,  but  just  to  be  a-shooting.  And  from  that 
on  everybody  gets  as  sick  of  living  as  a  bunch  of 
Chicago  factory  hands  when  another  savings  bank 
busts,  and  they  all  falls  down  and  curses  him. 
And  the  snakes  wiggles  all  over  the  top  of  the 
water  like  I  seen  'em  one  time  when  they  cleaned 
out  a  reservoir  where  one  of  them  prairie  towns 
gets  its  drinking  water  from.  And  the  Ancient 
Mariner  he  tries  to  die  and  can't  make  it;  and  their 
ghosts  is  whizzing  all  around  that  ship  and  they 
go  by  him  in  the  moonlight  like  a  puff  of  steam 
goes  by  you  on  a  frosty  morning  out  of  an  engine- 
room  manhole.  And  there's  a  moral  to  that  story, 

[204] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


too.  I  bet  the  fellow  that  doped  that  out  had 
been  on  an  awful  bat.  I  like  to  of  talked  with 
that  nut.  They  was  a  fellow  named  Looney  Ho- 
gan  use  to  have  them  phoney  hunches,  and  he  use 
to  tell  me  what  he  saw  after  he  had  'em.  Looney 
was  awful  good  company  and  I  use  to  like  to 
hear  him  tell  what  he  seen  and  what  he  thinks  he 
seen,  but  he  walked  off  of  a  grain  barge  up  to 
Duluth  when  he  was  asleep  one  night  and  he  never 
did  wake  up. 

Sitting  there  thinking  of  the  awful  remarkable 
things  that  is,  and  the  ones  that  isn't,  and  the  ones 
that  maybe  is  and  maybe  isn't,  and  the  nuts  that 
is  phoney  about  some  things  and  not  about  others, 
and  how  two  guys  can  look  at  the  same  thing  and 
when  you  ask  them  about  it  both  has  seen  differ 
ent  things,  I  must  a-went  to  sleep.  And  I  must 
a-slept  a  long  time  there,  and  pretty  soon  in  my 
sleep  I  heard  two  voices  and  then  I  wakes  up 
sudden  and  still  hears  them,  low  and  quicklike,  in 
the  room  that  opens  right  off  from  the  library  with 
a  pair  of  them  sliding  doors  like  is  on  to  a  boxcar. 
One  was  a  woman's  voice,  and  not  Miss  Estelle's, 
and  she  says  like  she  was  choked  up: 

"But  I  must  see  them  before  we  go,  Henry." 

And  the  other  was  a  man's  voice,  and  it  wasn't 
no  one  around  our  house. 

"But,  my  God!"  he  says,  "suppose  you  catch  it 
yourself,  Jane  1" 

I  set  up  straight  then,  and  I  would  of  give  a 
[205] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


good  deal  to  see  through  that  door,  because  Jane 
was  the  perfessor's  wife's  first  name. 

"You  mean  suppose  you  get  it,"  she  says.  I 
like  to  of  seen  the  look  she  must  of  give  him  to 
fit  in  with  the  way  she  says  that  you.  He  didn't 
say  nothing,  the  man  didn't;  and  then  her  voice 
softens  down  some,  and  she  says,  low  and  slow: 
4 'Henry,  wouldn't  you  love  me  if  I  did  get  it? 
Suppose  it  marked  and  pitted  me  all  up?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  he  says,  "of  course  I  would. 
Nothing  can  change  the  way  I  feel.  You  know 
that."  He  said  it  quick  enough,  all  right,  just  the 
way  they  do  in  a  show,  but  it  sounded  too  much  like 
it  does  on  the  stage  to  of  suited  me  if  I'd  been  her. 
I  seen  folks  overdo  them  little  talks  before  this. 

I  listens  some  more,  and  then  I  see  how  it  is. 
This  is  that  musician  feller  Biddy  Malone's  been 
talking  about.  Jane's  going  to  run  off  with  him 
all  right,  but  she's  got  to  kiss  the  kids  first. 
Women  is  like  that.  They  may  hate  the  kids'  pa 
all  right,  but  they's  dad-burned  few  of  'em  don't 
like  the  kids.  I  thinks  to  myself:  "It  must  be  late. 
I  bet  they  was  already  started,  or  ready  to  start, 
and  she  made  him  bring  her  here  first  so's  she  could 
sneak  in  and  see  the  kids.  She  just  simply  couldn't 
get  by.  But  she's  taking  a  fool  risk,  too.  Fur 
how's  she  going  to  see  Margery  with  that  nurse 
coming  and  going  and  hanging  around  all  night? 
And  even  if  she  tries  just  to  see  William  Dear  it's 
a  ten  to  one  shot  he'll  wake  up  and  she'll  be  ketched 


at  it." 


[206] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


And  then  I  thinks,  suppose  she  is  ketched  at  it? 
What  of  it?  Ain't  a  woman  got  a  right  to  come 
into  her  own  house  with  her  own  door  key,  even  if 
they  is  a  quarantine  on  to  it,  and  see  her  kids? 
And  if  she  is  ketched  seeing  them,  how  would  any 
one  know  she  was  going  to  run  off?  And  ain't 
she  got  a  right  to  have  a  friend  of  hern  and  her 
husband's  bring  her  over  from  her  mother's 
house,  even  if  it  is  a  little  late? 

Then  I  seen  she  wasn't  taking  no  great  risks 
neither,  and  I  thinks  mebby  I  better  go  and  tell 
that  perfessor  what  is  going  on,  fur  he  has  treated 
me  purty  white.  And  then  I  thinks :  "I'll  be  gosh- 
derned  if  I  meddle.  So  fur  as  I  can  see  that  there 
perfessor  ain't  getting  fur  from  what's  coming  to 
him,  nohow.  And  as  fur  her,  you  got  to  let  some 
people  find  out  what  they  want  fur  theirselves. 
Anyhow,  where  do  /  come  in  at?" 

But  I  want  to  get  a  look  at  her  and  Henry, 
anyhow.  So  I  eases  off  my  shoes,  careful-like,  and 
I  eases  acrost  the  floor  to  them  sliding  doors,  and 
I  puts  my  eye  down  to  the  little  crack.  The  talk 
is  going  backward  and  forward  between  them  two, 
him  wanting  her  to  come  away  quick,  and  her 
undecided  whether  to  risk  seeing  the  kids.  And 
all  the  time  she's  kind  o'  hoping  mebby  she  will 
be  ketched  if  she  tries  to  see  the  kids,  and  she's 
begging  off  fur  more  time  ginerally. 

Well,  sir,  I  didn't  blame  that  musician  feller 
none  when  I  seen  her.  She  was  a  peach. 

And  I  couldn't  blame  her  so  much,  either,  when 
[207] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


I  thought  of  Miss  Estelle  and  all  them  scientifics  of 
the  perfessor's  strung  out  fur  years  and  years 
world  without  end. 

Yet,  when  I  seen  the  man,  I  sort  o'  wished  she 
wouldn't.  I  seen  right  off  that  Henry  wouldn't 
do.  It  takes  a  man  with  a  lot  of  gumption  to  keep 
a  woman  feeling  good  and  not  sorry  fur  doing  it 
when  he's  married  to  her.  But  it  takes  a  man 
with  twicet  as  much  to  make  her  feel  right  when 
they  ain't  married.  This  feller  wears  one  of  them 
little,  brown,  pointed  beards  fur  to  hide  where 
his  chin  ain't.  And  his  eyes  is  too  much  like  a 
woman's.  Which  is  the  kind  that  gets  the  biggest 
piece  of  pie  at  the  lunch  counter  and  fergits  to 
thank  the  girl  as  cuts  it  big.  She  was  setting  in 
front  of  a  table,  twisting  her  fingers  together,  and 
he  was  walking  up  and  down.  I  seen  he  was  mad 
and  trying  not  to  show  it,  and  I  seen  he  was  scared 
of  the  smallpox  and  trying  not  to  show  that,  too. 
And  just  about  that  time  something  happened  that 
kind  o'  jolted  me. 

They  was  one  of  them  big  chairs  in  the  room 
where  they  was  that  has  got  a  high  back  and  spins 
around  on  itself.  It  was  right  acrost  from  me,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  it  was  facing  the 
front  window,  which  was  a  bow  window.  And 
that  there  chair  begins  to  turn,  slow  and  easy. 
First  I  thought  she  wasn't  turning.  Then  I  seen 
she  was.  But  Jane  and  Henry  didn't.  They  was 
all  took  up  with  each  other  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  their  back  to  it. 

[208] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


Henry  is  a-begging  of  Jane,  and  she  turns  a  lit 
tle  more,  that  chair  does.  Will  she  squeak,  I 
wonders? 

"Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Jane,"  says  the  Henry 
feller. 

Around  she  comes  three  hull  inches,  that  there 
chair,  and  nary  a  squeak. 

"A  fool?"  asks  Jane,  and  laughs.  uAnd  I'm 
not  a  fool  to  think  of  going  with  you  at  all,  then?" 

That  chair,  she  moved  six  inches  more  and  I 
seen  the  calf  of  a  leg  and  part  of  a  crumpled-up 
coat  tail. 

"But  I  am  going  with  you,  Henry,"  says  Jane. 
And  she  gets  up  just  like  she  is  going  to  put  her 
arms  around  him. 

But  Jane  don't.  Fur  that  chair  swings  clear 
around  and  there  sets  the  perfessor.  He's  all 
hunched  up  and  caved  in  and  he's  rubbing  his 
eyes  like  he's  just  woke  up  recent,  and  he's  got  a 
grin  on  to  his  face  that  makes  him  look  like  his 
sister  Estelle  looks  all  the  time. 

"Excuse  me,"  says  the  perfessor. 

They  both  swings  around  and  faces  him.  I  can 
hear  my  heart  bumping.  Jane  never  says  a  word. 
The  man  with  the  brown  beard  never  says  a  word. 
But  if  they  felt  like  me  they  both  felt  like  laying 
right  down  there  and  having  a  fit.  They  looks  at 
him  and  he  just  sets  there  and  grins  at  them. 

But  after  a  while  Jane,  she  says : 

"Well,  now  you  know!  What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

[209] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Henry,  he  starts  to  say  something,  too.  But 

"Don't  start  anything,"  says  the  perfessor  to 
him.  "You  aren't  going  to  do  anything."  Or 
they  was  words  to  that  effect. 

"Professor  Booth,"  he  says,  seeing  he  has  got 
to  say  something  or  else  Jane  will  think  the  worse 
of  him,  "I  am " 

"Shut  up,"  says  the  perfessor,  real  quiet.  "I'll 
tend  to  you  in  a  minute  or  two.  You  don't  count 
for  much.  This  thing  is  mostly  between  me  and 
my  wife." 

When  he  talks  so  decided  I  thinks  mebby  that 
perfessor  has  got  something  into  him  beside 
science  after  all.  Jane,  she  looks  kind  o'  surprised 
herself.  But  she  says  nothing,  except: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Frederick?"  And 
she  laughs  one  of  them  mean  kind  of  laughs,  and 
looks  at  Henry  like  she  wanted  him  to  spunk  up  a 
little  more,  and  says:  "What  can  you  do,  Fred 
erick?" 

Frederick,  he  says,  not  excited  a  bit: 

"There's  quite  a  number  of  things  I  could  do 
that  would  look  bad  when  they  got  into  the  news 
papers.  But  it's  none  of  them,  unless  one  of  you 
forces  it  on  to  me."  Then  he  says : 

"You  did  want  to  see  the  children,  Jane?"  ' 

She  nodded. 

"Jane,"  he  says,  "can't  you  see  I'm  the  better 
man?" 

The  perfessor,  he  was  woke  up  after  all  them 
years  of  scientifics,  and  he  didn't  want  to  see  her 

[210] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


go.    "Look  at  him,"  he  says,  pointing  to  the  feller 
with  the   brown  beard,    "he's   scared  stiff    right 


now." 


Which  I  would  of  been  scared  myself  if  I'd 
a-been  ketched  that-a-way  like  Henry  was,  and  the 
perfessor' s  voice  sounding  like  you  was  chopping 
ice  every  time  he  spoke.  I  seen  the  perfessor 
didn't  want  to  have  no  blood  on  the  carpet  without 
he  had  to  have  it,  but  I  seen  he  was  making  up  his 
mind  about  something,  too.  Jane,  she  says : 

"You  a  better  man?  You?  You  think  youVe 
been  a  model  husband  just  because  you've  never 
beaten  me,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  says  the  perfessor,  "I've  been  a  blamed 
fool  all  right.  I've  been  a  worse  fool,  maybe, 
than  if  I  had  beaten  you."  Then  he  turns  to 
Henry  and  he  says : 

"Duels  are  out  of  fashion,  aren't  they?  And  a 
plain  killing  looks  bad  in  the  papers,  doesn't  it? 
Well,  you  just  wait  for  me."  With  which  he  gets 
up  and  trots  out,  and  I  heard  him  running  down 
stairs  to  his  labertory. 

Henry,  he'd  ruther  go  now.  He  don't  want  to 
wait.  But  with  Jane  a-looking  at  him  he's  shamed 
not  to  wait.  It's  his  place  to  make  some  kind  of  a 
strong  action  now  to  show  Jane  he  is  a  great  man. 
But  he  don't  do  it.  And  Jane  is  too  much  of  a 
thoroughbred  to  show  him  she  expects  it.  And 
me,  I'm  getting  the  fidgets  and  wondering  to  my 
self,  "What  is  that  there  perfessor  up  to  now? 
Whatever  it  is,  it  ain't  like  no  one  else.  He  is 

[211] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


looney,  that  perfessor  is.  And  she  is  kind  o' 
looney,  too.  I  wonder  if  they  is  anyone  that  ain't 
looney  sometimes?  I  been  around  the  country 
a  good  'eal,  too,  and  seen  and  hearn  of  some 
awful  remarkable  things,  and  I  never  seen  no  one 
that  wasn't  more  or  less  looney  when  the  search 
us  the  femm  comes  into  the  case.  Which  is  a  Dago 
word  I  got  out'n  a  newspaper  and  it  means :  "Who 
was  the  dead  gent's  lady  friend?"  And  we  all 
set  and  sweat  and  got  the  fidgets  waiting  fur  that 
perfessor  to  come  back. 

Which  he  done  with  that  Sister  Estelle  grin  on 
to  his  face  and  a  pill  box  in  his  hand.  They  was 
two  pills  in  the  box.  He  says,  placid  and  chilly: 

"Yes,  sir,  duels  are  out  of  fashion.  This  is  the 
age  of,  science.  All  the  same,  the  one  that  gets 
her  has  got  to  fight  for  her.  If  she  isn't  worth 
fighting  for,  she  isn't  worth  having.  Here  are 
two  pills.  I  made  'em  myself.  One  has  enough 
poison  in  it  to  kill  a  regiment  when  it  gets  to  work 
ing  well — which  it  does  fifteen  minutes  after  it  is 
taken.  The  other  one  has  got  nothing  harmful 
in  it.  If  you  get  the  poison  one,  I  keep  her.  If  I 
get  it,  you  can  have  her.  Only  I  hope  you  will 
wait  long  enough  after  I'm  dead  so  there  won't 
be  any  scandal  around  town." 

Henry,  he  never  said  a  word.  He  opened  his 
mouth,  but  nothing  come  of  it.  When  he  done 
that  I  thought  I  hearn  his  tongue  scrape  agin  his 
cheek  on  the  inside  like  a  piece  of  sandpaper. 
He  was  scared,  Henry  was. 

[212] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


"But  you  know  which  is  which,"  Jane  sings  out. 
|The  thing's  not  fair!" 

"That  is  the  reason  my  dear  Jane  is  going  to 
huffle  these  pills  around  each  other  herself,"  says 
he  perfessor,  "and  then  pick  out  one  for  him  and 
|>ne  for  me.  You  don't  know  which  is  which, 
"ane.  And  as  he  is  the  favorite,  he  is  going  to 
jet  the  first  chance.  If  he  gets  the  one  I  want  him 
o  get,  he  will  have  just  fifteen  minutes  to  live 
fter  taking  it.  In  that  fifteen  minutes  he  will 
>lease  to  walk  so  far  from  my  house  that  he  won't 
lie  near  it  and  make  a  scandal.  I  won't  have  a 
candal  without  I  have  to.  Everything  is  going 
o  be  nice  and  quiet  and  respectable.  The  effect 
»f  the  poison  is  similar  to  heart  failure.  No  one 
:an  tell  the  difference  on  the  corpse.  There's  go 
ng  to  be  no  blood  anywhere.  I  will  be  found  dead 
n  my  house  in  the  morning  with  heart  failure,  or 
:lse  he  will  be  picked  up  dead  in  the  street,  far 
mough  away  so  as  to  make  no  talk."  Or  they 
vas  words  to  that  effect. 

He  is  rubbing  it  in  considerable,  I  thinks,  that 
>erfessor  is.  I  wonder  if  I  better  jump  in  and  stop 
he  hull  thing.  Then  I  thinks:  "No,  it's  between 
hem  three."  Beside,  I  want  to  see  which  one  is 
joing  to  get  that  there  loaded  pill.  I  always  been 
ntrusted  in  games  of  chance  of  all  kinds,  and 
vhen  I  seen  the  perfessor  was  such  a  sport,  I'm 
»orry  I  been  misjudging  him  all  this  time. 

Jane,  she  looks  at  the  box,  and  she  breathes  hard 
ind  quick. 

[213] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"I  won't  touch  'em,"  she  says.  "I  refuse  to  be 
a  party  to  any  murder  of  that  kind." 

"Huh?  You  do?"  says  the  perfessor.  "But 
the  time  when  you  might  have  refused  has  gone  by. 
You  have  made  yourself  a  party  to  it  already. 
You're  really  the  main  party  to  it. 

"But  do  as  you  like,"  he  goes  on.  "I'm  giving 
him  more  chance  than  I  ought  to  with  those  pills. 
I  might  shoot  him,  and  I  would,  and  then  face  the 
music,  if  it  wasn't  for  mixing  the  children  up  in 
the  scandal,  Jane.  If  you  want  to  see  him  get  a 
fair  chance,  Jane,  you've  got  to  hand  out  these 
pills,  one  to  him  and  then  one  to  me.  You  must 
kill  one  or  the  other  of  us,  or  else  I'll  kill  him  the 
other  way.  And  you  had  better  pick  one  out  for 
him,  because  /  know  which  is  which.  Or  else  let 
him  pick  one  out  for  himself,"  he  says. 

Henry,  he  wasn't  saying  nothing.  I  thought  he 
had  fainted.  But  he  hadn't.  I  seen  him  licking 
his  lips.  I  bet  Henry's  mouth  was  all  dry  inside. 

Jane,  she  took  the  box  and  she  went  round  in 
front  of  Henry  and  she  looked  at  him  hard.  She 
looked  at  him  like  she  was  thinking:  "Fur  God's 
sake,  spunk  up  some,  and  take  one  if  it  does  kill 
you!"  Then  she  says  out  loud:  "Henry,  if  you 
die  I  will  die,  too!" 

And  Henry,  he  took  one.  His  hand  shook,  but 
he  took  it  out'n  the  box.  If  she  had  of  looked  like 
that  at  me  mebby  I  would  of  took  one  myself. 
Fur  Jane,  she  was  a  peach,  she  was.  But  I  don't 
know  whether  I  would  of  or  not.  When  she  makes 

[214] 


i 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


that  brag  about  dying,  I  looked  at  the  perfessor. 
What  she  said  never  fazed  him.  And  I  thinks 
agin :  "Mebby  I  better  jump  in  now  and  stop  this 
thing."  And  then  I  thinks  agin:  "No,  it  is  be 
tween  them  three  and  Providence."  Beside,  I'm 
anxious  to  see  who  is  going  to  get  that  pill  with  the 
science  in  it.  I  gets  to  feeling  just  like  Providence 
hisself  was  in  that  there  room  picking  out  them 
pills  with  his  own  hands.  And  I  was  anxious  to 
see  what  Providence's  ideas  of  right  and  wrong 
was  like.  So  fur  as  I  could  see  they  was  all  three 
in  the  wrong,  but  if  I  had  of  been  in  there  running 
them  pills  in  Providence's  place  I  would  of  let  them 
all  off  kind  o'  easy. 

Henry,  he  ain't  eat  his  pill  yet.  He  is  just 
looking  at  it  and  shaking. 

The  perfessor  reaches  for  his  watch,  and  don't 
find  none.  Then  he  reaches  over  and  takes  Hen 
ry's  watch,  and  opens  it,  and  lays  it  on  the  table. 
"A  quarter  past  one,"  he  says.  uMr.  Murray, 
are  you  going  to  make  me  shoot  you  after  all?  I 
didn't  want  any  blood  nor  any  scandal,"  he  says. 
"It's  up  to  you,"  he  says,  "whether  you  want  to 
take  that  pill  and  get  your  even  chance,  or  whether 
;you  want  to  get  shot.  The  shooting  way  is  sure, 
tbut  looks  bad  in  the  papers.  The  pill  way  don't 
implicate  any  one,"  he  says.  "Which?"  And  he 
pulls  a  gun. 

Henry  he  looks  at  the  gun. 

Then  he  looks  at  the  pill. 

Then  he  swallows  the  pill. 
[215! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


The  perfessor  puts  his'n  into  his  mouth.  But 
he  don't  swallow  it.  He  looks  at  the  watch,  and 
he  looks  at  Henry.  "Sixteen  minutes  past  one," 
he  says.  "Mr.  Murray  will  be  dead  at  exactly 
fourteen  minutes  to  two.  I  got  the  harmless  one. 
I  can  tell  by  the  taste  of  the  chemicals." 

And  he  put  the  pieces  out  into  his  hand  to  show 
that  he  chewed  his'n  up,  not  being  willing  to  wait 
fifteen  minutes  for  a  verdict  from  his  digestive 
ornaments.  Then  he  put  'em  back  into  his  mouth 
and  chewed  'em  and  swallowed  'em  down  like  it 
was  coughdrops. 

Henry  has  got  sweat  breaking  out  all  over  his 
face,  and  he  tries  to  make  fur  the  door,  but  he  falls 
down  on  to  a  sofa. 

"This  is  murder,"  he  says,  weaklike.  And  he 
tries  to  get  up  agin,  but  this  time  he  falls  to  the 
floor  in  a  dead  faint. 

"It's  a  dern  short  fifteen  minutes,"  I  thinks  tc 
myself.  "That  perfessor  must  of  put  more  science 
into  Henry's  pill  than  he  thought  he  did  fur  it  tc 
of  knocked  him  out  this  quick.  It  ain't  skeercl) 
three  minutes." 

When  Henry  falls  the  woman  staggers  and  tries 
to  throw  herself  on  top  of  him.  The  corners  oi 
her  mouth  was  all  drawed  down,  and  her  eyes  was 
turned  up.  But  she  don't  yell  none.  She  can't, 
She  tries,  but  she  just  gurgles  in  her  throat.  The 
perfessor  won't  let  her  fall  acrost  Henry.  He 

ketches  her.     "Sit  up,  Jane,"  he  says,  with  that 

[216] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


Estelle  look  on  to  his  face,  uand  let  us  have  a 
talk." 

She  looks  at  him  with  no  more  sense  in  her  face 
than  a  piece  of  putty  has  got.  But  she  can't  look 
away  from  him. 

And  I'm  kind  o'  paralyzed,  too.  If  that  feller 
laying  on  the  floor  had  only  jest  kicked  oncet,  or 
grunted,  or  done  something,  I  could  of  loosened 
up  and  yelled,  and  I  would  of.  I  just  needed  to 
fetch  a  yell.  But  Henry  ain't  more'n  dropped 
down  there  till  I'm  feeling  just  like  he'd  always 
been  there,  and  I'd  always  been  staring  into  that 
room,  and  the  last  word  anyone  spoke  was  said 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago. 

"You're  a  murderer,"  says  Jane  in  a  whisper, 
looking  at  the  perfessor  in  that  stare-eyed  way. 
"You're  a  murderer"  she  says,  saying  it  like  she 
was  trying  to  make  herself  feel  sure  he  really  was 
one. 

"Murder!"  says  the  perfessor.  "Did  you  think 
I  was  going  to  run  any  chances  for  a  pup  like  him? 
He's  scared,  that's  all.  He's  just  fainted  through 
fright.  He's  a  coward.  Those  pills  were  both 
just  bread  and  sugar.  He'll  be  all  right  in  a  min 
ute  or  two.  I've  just  been  showing  you  that  the 
fellow  hasn't  got  nerve  enough  nor  brains  enough 
for  a  fine  woman  like  you,  Jane,"  he  says. 

Then  Jane  begins  to  sob  and  laugh,  both  to 
oncet,  kind  o'  wildlike,  her  voice  clucking  like  a  hen 
does,  and  she  says: 

"It's  worse  then,  it's  worse !    It's  worse  for  me 

[2171 


Carter  and  Other  People 


than  if  it  were  a  murder!  Some  farces  can  be 
more  tragic  than  any  tragedy  ever  was,"  she  says. 
Or  they  was  words  to  that  effect. 

And  if  Henry  had  of  been  really  dead  she 
couldn't  of  took  it  no  harder  than  she  begun  to 
take  it  now  when  she  saw  he  was  alive,  but  just 
wasn't  no  good.  But  I  seen  she  was  taking  on  fur 
herself  now  more'n  fur  Henry.  Women  is  made 
unlike  most  other  animals  in  many  ways.  When 
they  is  foolish  about  a  man  they  can  stand  to 
have  that  man  killed  a  good  'eal  better  than  to 
have  him  showed  up  ridiculous  right  in  front  of 
them.  They  will  still  be  crazy  about  the  man 
that's  killed,  but  they  don't  never  forgive  the  lob 
ster.  I  seen  that  work  out  before  this.  You  can 
be  most  any  thing  else  and  get  away  with  it,  but 
if  you're  a  lobster  it's  all  off  even  if  you  can't  help 
being  a  lobster.  And  when  the  perfessor  kicks 
Henry  in  the  ribs  and  he  comes  to  and  sneaks  out, 
Jane  she  never  even  looks  at  him. 

ujane,"  says  the  perfessor,  when  she  quiets 
down  some,  uyou  got  a  lot  to  forgive  me.  But 
do  you  s'pose  I  learned  enough  sense  so  we  can 
make  a  go  of  it  if  we  start  over  again?" 

But  Jane  never  said  nothing. 

ujane,"  he  says,  "Estelle  is  going  back  to  New 
England  to  stay  there  for  good." 

She  begins  to  take  a  little  interest  then.  "Did 
Estelle  tell  you  so?"  she  says. 

"No,"  says  the  perfessor,  "Estelle  don't  know 
[218] 


The  Professor's  Awakening 


it  yet.     But  she  is.     I'm  going  to  tell  her  in  the 


morninV 


But  she  still  hates  him.  She's  making  herself. 
She  wouldn't  of  been  a  female  woman  if  she'd 
of  been  coaxed  that  easy.  Pretty  soon  she  says, 
"I'm  going  upstairs  and  go  to  bed.  I'm  tired." 
And  she  went  out  looking  like  the  perfessor  was  a 
perfect  stranger. 

After  she  left  the  perfessor  set  there  quite  a 
while  and  he  was  looking  tired  out,  too;  and  there 
wasn't  no  mistake  about  me.  I  was  asleep  all 
through  my  legs,  and  I  kept  a  wondering  to  my 
self,  suppose  them  pills  had  one  of  them  been 
loaded  sure  enough,  which  one  would  of  got  it? 
And  when  the  perfessor  leaves  I  says  to  myself, 
I  reckon  I  better  light  a  rag.  So  I  goes  to  the 
front  window  and  opens  it  easy;  but  I  thinks  about 
Henry's  watch  on  the  table,  every  one  else  having 
forgot  it,  and  I  thinks  I  better  hunt  him  up  and 
give  it  to  him. 

And  then  I  thinks  why  should  I  give  him  pain, 
for  that  watch  will  always  remind  him  of  an  un 
pleasant  time  he  once  had. 

And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  sitting  in  that  win 
dow  looking  at  that  watch  I  wouldn't  a-been  writ 
ing  this,  for  I  wouldn't  of  been  in  jail  now. 

I  tried  to  explain  my  intentions  was  all  right, 
but  the  police  says  it  ain't  natural  to  be  seen  com 
ing  out  of  a  front  window  at  two  in  the  morning 
in  a  striped  sweater  and  a  dinky  dinner  suit  with 

[2191 


Carter  and  Other  People 


a  gold  watch  in  your  hand;  if  you  are  hunting  the 
owner  you  are  doing  it  peculiar. 

One  of  them  reporters  he  says  to  me  to  write 
the  truth  about  how  I  got  into  jail;  nobody  else 
never  done  it  and  stuck  to  facts.  But  this  is  the 
truth  so  help  me;  it  was  all  on  account  of  that 
watch,  which  my  intentions  with  regard  to  was 
perfectly  honorable,  and  all  that  goes  before  leads 
up  to  that  watch.  There  wasn't  no  larceny  about 
it;  it  was  just  another  mistake  on  the  part  of  the 
police.  If  Fd  of  been  stealing  wouldn't  I  stole 
the  silverware  a  week  before  that? 

The  more  I  travel  around  the  more  dumb  peo 
ple  I  see  that  can't  understand  how  an  honest  and 
upright  citizen  can  get  into  circumstantial  evidence 
and  still  be  a  honest  and  upright  citizen. 


X. — The  Penitent 


X. — The  Penitent 

"You,  who  are  not  married,"  said  the  penitent, 
"cannot  know — can  never  realize " 

He  hesitated,  his  glance  wandering  over  the 
evidences  of  luxury,  the  hints  of  Oriental  artistry, 
the  esthetic  effectiveness  of  Dr.  Eustace  Beaulieu's 
studio. 

"Proceed/7  said  Dr.  Beaulieu,  suavely.  "What 
I  may  know  is  not  the  important  thing.  You  do 
not  address  yourself  to  me,  but  through  me  to 
that  principle  of  Harmony  in  the  Cosmos  which  is 
Spirit — Ultimate  Spirit — which  we  call  God.  All 
that  I  can  do  is  assist  you  to  get  into  Accord  with 
the  Infinite  again,  help  you  to  vibrate  in  unison 
with  the  Cosmic  All." 

"You  are  right;  I  do  not  look  to  you"  said  the 
penitent,  "for  ease  of  mind  or  spirit."  And  a 
fleeting  half-smile  showed  in  his  eyes,  as  if  some 
ulterior  thought  gave  a  certain  gusto  to  the  man 
ner  in  which  he  stressed  the  pronoun  you.  But 
the  rest  of  his  scarred  and  twisted  face  was  ex 
pressionless,  beneath  the  thick  mask  of  a  heavy 

Author's  Note :  "The  Penitent"  was  suggested  by  two  poems, 
"A  Forgiveness,"  by  Browning,  and  "The  Portrait,"  by  Owen 
Meredith. 

[223] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


gray-streaked  beard  that  grew  almost  to  his  eyes. 

Dr.  Eustace  Beaulieu  was  the  leader — nay,  the 
founder — of  one  of  the  many,  many  cults  that  have 
sprung  up  in  New  York  City  and  elsewhere  in 
America  during  the  past  three  or  four  decades. 
An  extraordinary  number  of  idle,  well-to-do 
women  gathered  at  his  studio  two  or  three  times 
a  week,  and  listened  to  his  expositions  of  ethics 
de  luxe,  served  with  just  the  proper  dash  of  Orien 
tal  mysticism  and  European  pseudoscience.  He 
was  forty,  he  was  handsome,  with  magnetic  brown 
eyes  and  the  long  sensitive  fingers  of  a  musician; 
he  was  eloquent,  he  was  persuasive,  he  was  pros 
perous. 

When  he  talked  of  the  Zend-Avesta,  when  he 
spoke  of  the  Vedantic  writings,  when  he  touched 
upon  the  Shinto  worship  of  the  Nipponese,  when 
he  descanted  upon  the  likeness  of  the  Christian 
teachings  to  the  tenets  of  Buddhism,  when  he  re 
vealed  the  secrets  of  the  Yogi  philosophy,  when  he 
hinted  his  knowledge  of  the  priestly  craft  of  older 
Egypt  and  of  later  Eleusis,  his  feminine  followers 
thrilled  in  their  seats  as  a  garden  of  flowers  that 
is  breathed  upon  by  a  Summer  wind — they  vi 
brated  to  his  words  and  his  manner  and  his  re 
strained  fervor  with  a  faint  rustling  of  silken  gar 
ments  and  a  delicate  fragrance  of  perfume. 

Men  were  not,  as  a  rule,  so  enthusiastic  con 
cerning  Dr.  Eustace  Beaulieu  and  his  cult;  there 
were  few  of  them  at  his  lectures,  there  were  few 
of  them  enrolled  in  the  classes  where  he  inducted 

[224] 


The  Penitent 


his  followers  into  the  more  subtle  phases  of  ethics, 
where  he  led  them  to  the  higher  planes  of  occult 
ism,  for  a  monetary  consideration;  few  of  them 
submitted  themselves  to  him  for  the  psychic  healing 
that  was  one  of  his  major  claims  to  fame.  And 
this  scarred  and  bearded  stranger,  who  limped, 
was  one  of  the  very  few  men  who  had  ever  inti 
mated  a  desire  to  bare  his  soul  to  Dr.  Beaulieu, 
to  tell  his  story  and  receive  spiritual  ministration, 
in  the  manner  of  the  confessional.  These  confes 
sionals,  after  the  public  lectures,  had  been  recently 
introduced  by  Dr.  Beaulieu,  and  they  were  giving 
him,  he  felt,  a  firmer  grip  upon  his  flock — his  dis 
ciples,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  call  them. 

"I  repeat,"  said  the  penitent — if  he  was  a  re 
pentant  man,  indeed — "no  bachelor  can  know  what 
love  really  is.  He  cannot  conceive  of  what  the 
daily  habit  of  association  with  a  woman  who  seems 
made  for  him,  and  for  him  alone,  may  mean  to  a 
man.  My  love  for  my  wife  was  almost  worship. 
She  was  my  wife  indeed,  I  told  myself,  and  she  it 
was  for  whom  I  worked. 

"For  I  did  work,  worked  well  and  unselfishly. 
Every  man  must  have  some  work.  Some  do  it 
from  necessity,  but  I  did  it  because  I  loved  the 
work — and  the  woman — and  thus  I  gained  a 
double  reward.  I  was  a  politician,  and  something 
more.  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  was  a  patriot,  too. 
The  inheritor  of  wealth  and  position,  I  undertook 
to  clear  the  city  in  which  I  lived,  and  which  my 
forefathers  had  helped  to  build,  of  the  ring  of 

[225! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


grafters  who  were  making  the  name  of  the  town  a 
byword  throughout  the  nation.  The  details  of 
that  long  and  hard  strife  are  not  pertinent.  I 
fought  with  something  more  than  boldness  and 
determination;  I  fought  with  a  joy  in  every  strug 
gle,  because  I  fought  for  something  more  than 
the  world  knew.  The  world  could  not  see  that 
my  inspiration  was  in  my  home;  that  in  the  hours 
of  battle  my  blood  sang  joyously  with  the  thought 
of — her !  Was  it  any  wonder  that  I  worked  well  ? 

"One  day,  as  I  sat  in  my  office  downtown,  the 
thought  of  her  drew  me  so  strongly  that  I  deter 
mined  to  surprise  her  by  coming  home  unexpect 
edly  early.  It  was  summer,  and  we  were  living  in 
our  country  home,  an  old-fashioned  stone  resi 
dence  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  outskirts  of  the 
city.  The  house  was  situated  at  the  edge  of  a 
park  that  was,  indeed,  almost  virgin  forest,  for 
the  whole  estate  had  been  in  my  family  for  nearly 
a  hundred  years. 

"I  determined  to  surprise  my  wife,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  take  the  rare  relaxation  of  a  suburban 
walk.  I  was  soon  outside  the  city  limits,  and 
through  the  zone  where  vacant  lots  broaden  into 
fields;  and  then  I  left  the  road,  cutting  across  the 
fields  and  finally  plunging  into  the  woods  on  my 
own  place.  Thus  it  was  that  I  approached  the 
house  from  the  rear  and  came  suddenly  out  of  the 
timber  into  my  own  orchard.  I  seldom  walked 
from  town,  and  it  was  a  good  long  hour  before 
mv  usual  time  of  arrival,  although  in  that  sheltered 

[326] 


The  Penitent 


and  woody  place  the  dusk  was  already  gathering  in. 

"As  I  entered  the  orchard  a  man  made  a  hur 
ried  exit  from  a  vine-wreathed  pergola  where  my 
wife  often  sat  to  read,  cast  one  look  at  me,  cleared 
the  orchard  fence,  and  made  off  through  the 
woods,  disappearing  at  once  among  the  boles  of 
the  trees. 

"He  had  not  turned  his  full  face  toward  me  at 
any  time,  but  had  shielded  it  with  an  upflung  arm; 
from  the  moment  he  broke  cover  until  his  disap 
pearance  there  had  passed  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  tell  it,  and  I  was  scarcely  to  be  blamed  if  I 
was  left  guessing  as  to  his  identity,  for  the  mo 
ment.  For  the  moment,  I  say. 

"There  had  been  so  much  fright  in  his  manner 
that  I  stood  and  looked  after  him.  The  thought 
came  to  me  that  perhaps  here  was  a  man  who  had 
had  an  affair  with  one  of  my  servants.  I  turned 
toward  the  pergola  and  met — my  wife ! 

"She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  always  more  beau 
tiful  in  her  moments  of  excitement.  She  con 
fronted  me  now  with  a  manner  which  I  could  not 
help  but  admire.  I  trusted  her  so  that  she  might 
readily  have  passed  off  a  much  more  anomalous 
situation  with  an  easy  explanation.  But  in  her 
face  I  read  a  deliberate  wish  to  make  me  feel  the 
truth. 

"I  looked  at  her  long,  and  she  returned  the 
gaze  unflinchingly.  And  I  recognized  her  look  for 
what  it  was.  She  had  cast  off  the  chains  of  deceit. 
Her  glance  was  a  sword  of  hatred,  and  the  first 

[227] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


open  thrust  of  the  blade  was  an  intense  pleasure 
to  her.  We  both  knew  all  without  a  word. 

"I  might  have  killed  her  then.  But  I  did  not. 
I  turned  and  walked  toward  the  house;  she  fol 
lowed  me,  and  I  opened  the  door;  she  preceded 
me  inside.  She  paused  again,  as  if  gathering  all 
her  forces  for  a  struggle;  but  I  passed  her  in  si 
lence,  and  went  upstairs  to  my  own  room. 

"And  then  began  a  strange  period  in  my  life. 
Shortly  after  this  episode  came  a  partial  triumph 
of  the  reform  element  in  my  city;  the  grafters  were 
ousted,  and  I  found  myself  with  more  than  a  local 
reputation,  and  thrust  into  an  office.  My  life  was 
now  even  more  of  a  public  matter  than  before. 
We  entertained  largely.  We  were  always  in  the 
public  eye.  Before  our  guests  and  in  public  we 
were  always  all  that  should  be.  But  when  the  oc 
casion  was  past,  we  would  drop  the  mask,  turn 
from  each  other  with  dumb  faces,  and  go  each  our 
severed  ways. 

"For  a  year  this  sort  of  life  kept  up.  I  still 
worked;  but  now  I  worked  to  forget.  When  I 
allowed  myself  to  think  of  her  at  all,  it  was  always 
as  of  some  one  who  was  dead.  Or  so  I  told  my 
self,  over  and  over  again,  until  I  believed  it. 

"One  day  there  was  a  close  election.  I  was  the 
successful  candidate.  I  was  to  go  to  Congress. 
All  evening  and  far  into  the  night  my  wife  and  I 
played  our  parts  well.  But  when  the  last  con 
gratulation  had  been  received,  and  the  last  speech 
made,  and  the  last  friend  had  gone,  and  we  were 

[228] 


The  Penitent 


alone  with  each  other  once  more,  she  turned  to 
me  with  a  look  something  like  the  one  she  had  met 
me  with  on  that  summer  evening  a  year  before. 

"  'I  want  to  speak  with  you,'  she  said. 

"'Yes?' 

"They  were  the  first  words  we  had  exchanged 
in  that  year,  when  not  compelled  by  the  necessi 
ties. 

"  'What  do  you  wish  to  speak  about?'  I  asked 
her. 

"  'You  know,'  she  said,  briefly.  And  I  did 
know.  There  was  little  use  trying  to  deny  it. 

"  'Why  have  you  asked  me  no  questions?'  she 
said. 

"I  would  have  made  another  attempt  to  pass  the 
situation  over  without  going  into  it,  but  I  saw  that 
that  would  be  impossible.  She  had  reached  the 
place  where  she  must  speak.  I  read  all  this  in 
her  face.  And  looking  at  her  closely  with  the  first 
candid  glance  I  had  given  her  in  that  year,  I  saw 
that  she  had  changed  greatly,  but  she  was  still 
beautiful. 

'  'I  did  not  choose  to  open  the  subject  with 
you,'  I  said;  'I  thought  that  you  would  explain 
when  you  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Evidently  that 
time  has  come.  You  were  to  me  like  a  dead  per 
son.  If  the  dead  have  any  messages  for  me,  they 
must  bring  them  to  me  unsolicited.  It  was  not  my 
place  to  hunt  among  the  tombs.' 

"  4No,'  she  said,  'let  us  be  honest,  since  it  is  the 
last  talk  we  may  ever  have  together.  Let  us  be 

[229] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


frank  with  each  other,  and  with  ourselves.  I  was 
not  like  a  dead  person  to  you.  The  dead  are  dead, 
and  I  am  not.  You  asked  me  no  questions  because 
you  disdained  me  so.  You  despised  me  so — and  it 
was  sweet  to  you  to  make  me  feel  the  full  weight 
of  your  scorn  through  this  silence.  It  was  better 
than  killing  me.  Is  that  not  the  real  reason?' 

"  'Yes,'  I  admitted,  'that  is  it.  That  is  the  truth.' 

"  'Listen,'  she  said,  'it  would  surprise  you — 
would  it  not — to  learn  that  I  still  love  you — that 
I  have  loved  you  all  along — that  you  are  the  only 
man  I  have  ever  really  loved — that  I  love  you 
now?  All  that  is  incredible  to  you,  is  it  not?' 

"  'Yes,'  I  said,  'it  is.  You  must  pardon  me,  but 
— it  is  incredible  to  me.' 

'  'Well,  it  is  true,'  she  said,  and  paused  a  mo 
ment.  'And  I  can  tell  you  why  it  is  true,  and  why 
— why — the — the  other  was  true,  too.  You — you 
do  not  understand  women,'  she  said.  'Sometimes 
I  think  if  you  were  a  smaller  man,  in  some  ways, 
you  would  understand  them  better.  Sometimes  I 
think  that  you  are  too — too  big,  somehow — ever 
to  make  a  woman  happy.  Not  too  self-centered; 
you  are  not  consciously  selfish;  you  never  mean  to 
be.  But  you  give,  give,  give  the  riches  of  your 
nature  to  people — to  the  world  at  large — instead 
of  to  those  who  should  share  them. 

"  'Oh,  I  know — the  fault  is  all  mine !  Another 
kind  of  woman — the  right  kind  for  you — the  kind 
you  thought  I  was — would  not  have  asked  for  all 
that  was  a  necessity  for  me ;  would  have  been  big 

[230] 


The  Penitent 


enough  to  have  done  without  it;  would  have  lost 
herself  in  your  love  for  all  humanity.  That  is  the 
kind  of  woman  you  thought  I  was.  And  I  tried  to 
be.  But  I  wasn't.  I  wasn't  that  big. 

4  'I  did  sympathize  with  your  work;  I  could 
understand  it;  I  loved  to  hear  you  tell  about  it. 
But  I  loved  it  because  it  was  you  that  told  me  about 
it.  You  didn't  see  that!  You  thought  I  was  a 
goddess.  It  was  enough  for  your  nature  to  wor 
ship  me;  to  set  me  upon  a  pedestal  and  to  call  me 
your  inspiration;  oh,  you  treated  me  well — you 
were  faithful  to  me — you  were  generous!  But 
you  neglected  me  in  a  way  that  men  do  not  under 
stand;  that  some  men  will  never  understand. 
While  you  were  giving  your  days  and  your  nights, 
and  every  fiber  of  your  brain  and  body,  to  what 
you  called  the  cause  of  the  people,  you  more  and 
more  forgot  you  had  a  wife.  Again  and  again 
and  again  I  tried  to  win  you  back  to  what  you 
were  when  I  married  you — to  the  time  when  your 
cause  was  not  all — but  you  wouldn't  see ;  I  couldn't 
make  you  feel. 

'Then  I  thought  I  would  show  you  that  other 
men  were  not  such  fools  as  to  overlook  what  was 
wasted  on  you.  But  you  never  noticed ;  you  trusted 
me  too  much;  you  were  too  much  engrossed.  And 
tHen  I  Hegan  to  hate  you.  I  loved  you  more  than 
I  ever  did  before,  and  at  the  same  time  I  hated 
you.  Can  you  understand  that?  Do  you  see  how 
women  can  hate  and  love  at  the  same  time  ?  Well, 
they  can. 

[231] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


"  'At  last — for  I  was  a  fool — I  took  a  lover!' 

"  'What  was  his  name?'  I  broke  in. 

"  'His  name?'  she  cried;  'that  does  not  matter! 
What  matter  if  there  was  one  of  them,  or  two  of 
them.  That  is  nothing! — the  name  is  nothing — 
they  were  nothing — nothing  but  tools ;  the  symbols 
of  my  rage,  of  my  hatred  for  you ;  whether  I  loved 
or  hated  you,  you  were  all — always.' 

"  'They  were  merely  convenient  clubs  with  which 
to  murder  my  honor  in  the  dark — is  that  it?'  I 
said. 

"  'Yes,'  she  said,  'that  is  it,  if  you  choose  to  put 
it  so.'  And  she  spoke  with  a  humility  foreign  to 
her  nature. 

"  'And  what  now?'  I  asked. 

"  'Now,'  she  said,  'now  that  I  have  spoken;  now 
that  I  have  told  you  everything;  now  that  I  have 
told  you  that  I  have  gone  on  loving  you  more  and 
more  and  more — now — I  am  going  to  die.' 

"  'You  have  not  asked  me  to  forgive  you,'  I 
said. 

"  'No,'  she  replied.  'For  what  is  forgiveness? 
I  do  not  know  exactly  what  that  word  means.  It 
is  supposed  to  wipe  out  something  that  has  hap 
pened,  is  it  not? — to  make  things  the  same  as  they 
were  before!  But  it  does  not  do  that.  That 
which  has  happened,  has  happened;  and  you  and 
I  know  it.' 

'You  had  better  live,'  I  said;  'I  no  longer  con 
sider  you  worthless.  I  feel  that  you  are  worthy 
of  my  anger  now.' 

[232] 


The  Penitent 


"Her  face  cleared  almost  into  something  like 
joy. 

"  'I  have  told  the  truth,  and  I  raise  myself  from 
the  depths  of  your  scorn  to  the  place  where  you 
can  feel  a  hot  rage  against  me?'  she  asked. 

"  'Yes,'  I  said.  And  the  light  on  her  face  was 
like  that  of  which  some  women  are  capable  when 
they  are  told  that  they  are  beloved. 

"  'And  if  I  die?'  she  asked. 

"  'Who  knows  but  that  you  might  climb  by  it?' 
I  said.  'Who  knows  but  what  your  death  might 
turn  my  anger  to  love  again?'  And  with  that  I 
turned  and  left  her  there. 

"That  night  I  sat  all  night  in  my  study,  and  in 
the  morning  they  brought  me  the  news  that  she 
was  dead.  She  must  have  used  some  poison. 
What,  I  do  not  know;  and  the  physicians  called  it 
heart-failure.  But  what  is  the  matter,  Doctor?" 

"Nothing,  nothing!"  said  Dr.  Beaulieu.  And 
he  motioned  for  the  narrator  to  proceed.  But 
there  were  beads  of  perspiration  upon  the  healer's 
forehead,  and  a  pallor  overspread  his  face. 

"I  had  condemned  her  to  death,"  the  penitent 
went  on,  "and  she  had  been  her  own  executioner. 
She  had  loved  me;  she  had  sinned  against  me;  but 
she  had  always  loved  me;  she  had  hated  the  flesh 
that  sinned,  and  scorned  it  as  much  as  I;  her  life 
was  intolerable  and  she  had  been  her  own  exe 
cutioner. 

"The  revulsion  of  feeling  came.  I  loved  her 
again;  now  that  I  had  lost  her.  All  that  day  I 

[2331 


Carter  and  Other  People 


shut  myself  up,  seeing  no  one ;  refusing  to  look  at 
the  dozens  of  telegrams  that  came  pouring  in  from 
friends  and  acquaintances,  thinking — thinking — 
thinking 

"Night  came  again;  and  with  it  the  word  that 
the  best  friend  I  had  was  in  the  house;  a  friend 
of  my  college  days,  who  had  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  me  in  many  a  fight,  then  and  since. 
He  had  come  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  me 
in  the  hour  of  my  bitterest  bereavement,  was  the 
word  he  sent — how  bitter  now,  he  did  not  know. 
But  he  did  not  intrude  upon  the  privacy  of  my 
grief.  And  I  sat  thinking — thinking — think 
ing 

"Suddenly  the  idea  came  to  me  that  I  would 
go  upstairs  to  the  chamber  where  she  was,  and 
look  at  her  once  more.  Quietly  I  stole  up  the 
stairs,  and  through  the  hushed,  dim  house,  on  into 
the  gloomy  room,  lighted  only  by  the  candles  at 
the  head  and  foot  of  the  curtained  couch  on  which 
she  lay. 

"In  the  room  beyond,  the  watchers  sat.  I  stole 
softly  across  the  floor  so  as  not  to  attract  their 
attention;  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  with  the 
body.  I  approached  the  couch,  and  with  my  hand 
put  by  the  curtain 

"Then  I  dropped  it  suddenly.  I  remembered  a 
locket  which  she  had  formerly  worn  that  had  al 
ways  had  my  picture  in  it,  in  the  early  days  of  our 
married  life ;  a  locket  that  had  never  left  her  neck, 

waking  or  sleeping.    And  I  wondered 

[234] 


The  Penitent 


"I  wondered  something  about  women  which  no 
one  has  ever  been  able  to  tell  me;  not  even  a 
woman.  I  wondered  if  any  light  o'  love  had  ever 
been  able  to  make  her  feel  anything  like  real  love, 
after  all  I  I  wondered  if  she  had  ever  hugged  the 
thought  of  her  sin  to  her  bosom,  even  as  she  had 
at  first  hugged  the  thought  of  our  real  love — hers 
and  mine.  I  wondered  if  she  had  ever  carried 
about  with  her  a  sentimental  reminder  of  her 
lover,  of  any  lover,  as  she  had  once  done  of  her 
husband — and  how  long  ago !  I  wondered  how 
important  a  thing  it  had  seemed  to  her,  after  all! 
She  had  reconciled  herself  to  herself,  with  her 
death,  and  made  me  love  her  again.  And  I  won 
dered  to  how  great  an  extent  she  had  ever  fooled 
a  lover  into  thinking  she  loved  him!  There  are 
depths  and  contradictions  and  cross-currents  in  the 
souls  of  women  that  even  women  do  not  know,  far 
less  men — I  wondered  whose  picture  was  in  that 
locket ! 

"I  thrust  my  hand  through  the  curtains  of  the 
bed  again,  and  then  jumped  back. 

"I  had  felt  something  warm  there. 

"Did  she  live,  after  all? 

"At  the  same  instant  I  heard  a  movement  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed.  I  went  around. 

"My  best  friend  was  removing  his  hand  from 
the  curtains  on  the  other  side,  and  in  his  hand  was 
the  locket.  It  was  his  hand  that  I  had  felt. 

"We  stared  at  each  other.  I  spoke  first,  and  in 
[235] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


a  whisper,  so  that  the  others  in  the  next  room, 
who  had  come  to  watch,  should  not  hear. 

"  'I  came  for  that/  I  said. 

"  "The  locket?  So  did  I,'  he  said.  And  then 
added  quite  simply,  'My  picture  is  in  it.' 

"  'You  lie  F  I  whispered,  shaken  by  a  wind  of 
fury.  And  yet  I  knew  that  perhaps  he  did  not  lie, 
that  what  he  said  might  well  be  true.  Perhaps  that 
was  the  cause  of  my  fury. 

"His  face  was  lined  with  a  grief  and  weariness 
terrible  to  behold.  To  look  at  him  you  would  have 
thought  that  there  was  nothing  else  in  the  world 
for  him  except  grief.  It  was  a  great  grief  that 
made  him  careless  of  everything  else. 

''  'It  is  my  picture/  he  said.    'She  loved  me.' 

''  'I  say  that  you  lie,'  I  repeated.  'She  may  have 
played  with  you — but  she  never  loved  any  one  but 
me — in  her  heart  she  never  did !' 

'You !'  And  because  he  whispered,  hissing  out 
the  words,  they  seemed  to  gain  in  intensity  of 
scorn.  'You!  She  hated  you!  You  who  neg 
lected  her,  you  with  your  damned  eternal  politics, 
you  who  could  never  understand  her — love  ?  You 
who  could  never  give  her  the  things  a  woman  needs 
and  must  have — the  warmth — the  color — the  ro 
mance — the  poetry  of  life!  You! — with  your 
cold-blooded  humanitarianism!  I  tell  you,  she 
loved  me!  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  avow  it  to 
you  ?  It  is  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth  to  me,  that 
she  loved  me !  She  turned  from  you  to  me  be 
cause ' 

[236] 


The  Penitent 


"  'Don't  go  into  all  that/  I  said.  ll  heard  all 
about  that  last  night — from  her !  Open  the  locket, 
and  let  us  see  whose  face  is  there !' 

"He  opened  it,  and  dropped  the  locket.  He 
reeled  against  the  wall,  with  his  hands  over  his 
Face,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  a  physical  blow. 

"I  picked  the  toy  up  and  looked  at  it. 

"The  face  in  the  locket  was  neither  his  face  nor 
mine.  It  was  the  face  of — of  the  man  who  ran 
from  the  pergola  and  vaulted  over  the  orchard 
wall  into  the  woods  that  summer  night  a  year  ear 
lier;  the  man  whom  I  had  not,  for  the  moment, 
recognized. 

"We  stood  there,  this  man  who  had  been  my 
best  friend  and  I,  with  the  locket  between  us,  and 
I  debated  whether  to  strike  him  down " 

The  narrator  paused.  And  then  he  said,  fixing 
Dr.  Beaulieu  with  an  intent  gaze : 

"Should  I  have  struck  him  down?  You,  who 
are  a  teacher  of  ethics,  who  set  yourself  up  to  be, 
after  a  fashion,  a  preacher,  a  priest,  a  spiritual 
director,  tell  me,  would  I  have  been  justified  if  I 
had  killed  him  ?" 

Dr.  Beaulieu  seemed  to  shrink,  seemed  to  con 
tract  and  grow  smaller,  physically,  under  the  other 
man's  look.  He  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  articu 
late,  but  for  a  second  or  two  no  word  came.  And 
then,  regaining  something  of  his  usual  poise,  he 
said,  although  his  voice  was  a  bit  husky: 

"No !  It  is  for  the  Creator  of  life  to  take  life, 
and  no  other.  Hatred  and  strife  are  disharmony, 

[237] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


and  bring  their  own  punishment  by  throwing  the 
soul  out  of  unity  with  the  spirit  of  love  which  rules 
the  universe." 

It  sounded  stereotyped  and  emotionless,  even  in 
Dr.  Beaulieu's  own  ears,  as  he  said  it;  there  was 
a  mocking  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  man  that 
spoke  of  a  far  more  vital  and  genuine  emotion. 
Dr.  Beaulieu  licked  his  lips  and  there  came  a  knot 
in  his  forehead;  beads  of  perspiration  stood  out 
upon  his  brow. 

"You  were  right,"  said  Dr.  Beaulieu,  "in  not 
striking  him  down.  You  were  right  in  sparing 
him." 

The  bearded  man  laughed.  "I  did  not  say  that 
I  spared  him,"  he  said. 

Dr.  Beaulieu  looked  a  question;  a  question  that, 
perhaps,  he  dared  not  utter;  or  at  least  that  he  did 
not  care  to  utter.  He  had  dropped  completely  his 
role  of  spiritual  counselor;  he  regarded  his  visitor 
with  an  emotion  that  might  have  been  horror  and 
might  have  been  terror,  or  might  have  been  a  mix 
ture  of  the  two.  The  visitor  replied  to  the  un 
spoken  interrogation  in  the  healer's  manner. 

"I  did  not  strike  him  down.  Neither  did  I 
spare  him.  I  waited  and  I — I  used  him.  I  know 
how  to  wait;  I  am  of  the  nature  that  can  wait. 
It  was  years  before  fate  drew  all  things  together 
for  my  purpose,  and  gave  him  into  my  hands — 
fate,  assisted  by  myself. 

"I  waited,  and  I  used  him.  The  details  are  not 
pertinent  for  it  is  not  his  story  that  I  am  telling. 

[238] 


The  Penitent 


I  piloted  him  to  the  brink  of  destruction,  and  then 
— then,  I  saved  him." 

"You  saved  him?"  Dr.  Beaulieu  was  puzzled; 
but  his  fear,  if  fear  it  was,  had  not  abated.  There 
was  a  frank  menace,  now,  in  his  visitor's  air.  And 
the  healer  seemed  to  be  struggling,  as  he  listened 
to  the  tale,  to  force  some  reluctant  brain-cell  to 
unlock  and  give  its  stored  memories  to  his  con 
scious  mind. 

"I  saved  him.  I  saved  him  to  be  my  creature. 
I  broke  him,  and  I  saved  him.  I  made  him  my 
slave,  my  dog,  my — my  anything  I  choose  to  have 
him.  I  have  work  for  him  to  do." 

Again  the  man  paused,  looking  about  the  rich 
profusion  of  Dr.  Beaulieu's  studio.  There  was  a 
table  in  the  room  which  contained  a  number  of 
curios  from  Eastern  lands.  The  visitor  suddenly 
rose  from  his  chair  and  picked  from  among  them 
a  thin,  keen-bladed  dagger.  It  was  a  beautiful 
weapon,  of  some  Oriental  make;  beautiful  in  its 
lines;  beautiful  with  the  sullen  fire  of  many  jewels 
blazing  in  its  hilt — an  evil  levin  that  got  into  the 
mind  and  led  the  thoughts  astray  even  as  the  dainty 
deadliness  of  the  whole  tool  seduced  the  hand  to 
grasp  and  strike.  As  his  visitor,  strangely  break 
ing  the  flow  of  his  narrative,  examined  and  handled 
the  thing,  Dr.  Beaulieu  shuddered. 

"The  man  is  as  much  my  tool,"  said  the  visitor 
slowly,  "as  this  dagger  would  be  your  tool,  Dr. 
Beaulieu,  if  you  chose  to  thrust  it  into  my  breast — 
or  into  your  own." 

[239] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


He  laid  the  dagger  down  on  the  table,  and  re 
sumed  his  seat.  Dr.  Beaulieu  said  nothing,  but  he 
found  it  difficult  to  withdraw  his  eyes  from  his 
visitor's  steady  stare.  Slumped  and  sagged  within 
his  chair,  he  said  nothing.  Presently  the  visitor 
went  on. 

"I  had  a  fancy,  Dr.  Beaulieu;  I  had  a  fancy! 
It  suited  me  to  make  my  revenge  a  less  obvious 
thing  than  striking  down  the  old  friend  who  had 
betrayed  my  love  and  confidence,  a  less  obvious 
thing  than  striking  down  the  other  man — the  man 
whose  face  was  in  the  locket." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  locket. 
He  opened  it,  and  gazed  upon  the  face.  The 
healer  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and  then  sank 
back,  with  a  hoarse,  inarticulate  murmur.  His 
face  had  turned  livid,  and  he  trembled  in  every 
limb.  It  was  evident  that  the  missing  scene  which 
he  had  sought  before  had  suddenly  been  flashed 
upon  the  cinema  screen  of  his  recollection.  He 
remembered,  now 

"It  was  my  fancy,  Dr.  Beaulieu,  to  make  one  of 
them  take  revenge  upon  the  other,  that  I  might 
thus  be  revenged  upon  them  both." 

He  suddenly  rose,  and  forced  the  locket  into  the 
healer's  nerveless  grasp. 

"That  face — look  at  it !"  he  cried,  towering  over 
the  collapsed  figure  before  him. 

Compelled  by  a  will  stronger  than  his  own,  Dr. 
Beaulieu  looked.  It  was  the  counterfeit  present 
ment  of  himself  within.  It  fell  from  his  trembling 

[240] 


The  Penitent 


fingers   and  rolled  upon  the  floor.      The  cultist 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  other  man  stepped  back  and  regarded  him 
sardonically  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"I  should  not  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  the  man 
who  used  to  be  my  best  friend  would  pay  you  a 
visit  before  long — perhaps  in  an  hour,  perhaps  in 
a  week,  perhaps  in  a  month." 

He  picked  up  the  dagger  again,  and  toyed  with  it. 

"This  thing,"  he  said,  impersonally,  trying  the 
point  upon  his  finger,  uis  sharp.  It  would  give  a 
quick  death,  a  sure  death,  an  almost  painless 
death,  if  one  used  it  against  another  man — or 
against  one's  self." 

And  without  another  word  he  turned  and  left 
the  room. 

Dr.  Beaulieu  sat  and  listened  to  his  retreating 
footsteps.  And,  long  after  they  had  ceased  to 
sound,  Dr.  Beaulieu  still  sat  and  listened.  Per 
haps  he  was  listening  for  some  one  to  come,  now 
that  the  bearded  man  had  left.  He  sat  and  lis 
tened,  and  presently  he  reached  over  to  the  table 
and  picked  up  the  dagger  that  the  visitor  had  laid 
down  with  its  handle  toward  him.  He  pressed  its 
point  against  his  finger,  as  the  other  man  had 
done.  It  was  sharp.  It  would  give,  as  the  fellow 
had  said,  "a  quick  death,  a  sure  death,  an  almost 
painless  death." 

And  as  he  whispered  these  words  he  was  still 
listening — listening — waiting  for  some  one  to 

come 

[241] 


XL— The  Locked  Box 


XL— The  Locked  Box 


IT  was  a  small,  oblong  affair,  not  more  than 
three  inches  wide  or  deep,  by  twice  that  much  in 
length,  made  of  some  dark,  hard  wood;  brass 
bound  and  with  brass  lock  and  brass  hinges;  alto 
gether  such  a  box  as  a  woman  might  choose  to 
keep  about  her  room  for  any  one  of  a  half  dozen 
possible  uses. 

Clarke  did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen 
it  prior  to  his  unexpectedly  early  return  from  a 
western  trip  of  a  month's  duration.  He  thought 
he  would  give  his  wife  a  pleasant  surprise,  so  he 
did  not  telephone  the  news  of  his  arrival  to  the 
house,  but  went  home  and  entered  her  room  un 
announced.  As  he  came  in  his  wife  hastily  slipped 
something  into  the  box,  locked  it,  and  put  it  into 
one  of  the  drawers  of  her  desk.  Then  she  came 
to  meet  him,  and  he  would  not  have  thought  of  the 
matter  at  all  had  it  not  been  for  just  the  slightest 
trace  of  confusion  in  her  manner. 

She  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  always  was  after 
his  absences,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 

[2451 


Carter  and  Other  People 


exceptionally  so  this  time.  She  had  never  been  a 
demonstrative  woman;  but  it  seemed  to  Clarke 
that  she  came  nearer  that  description  on  the  occa 
sion  of  this  home-coming  than  ever  before.  They 
had  a  deal  to  say  to  each  other,  and  it  was  not 
until  after  dinner  that  the  picture  of  his  wife 
hurriedly  disposing  of  the  box  crossed  Clarke's 
consciousness  again.  Even  then  he  mentioned  it 
casually  because  they  were  talked  out  of  more 
important  topics  rather  than  because  of  any  very 
sharp  curiosity.  He  asked  her  what  it  was;  what 
was  in  it. 

"Oh,  nothing! — nothing  of  any  importance — 
nothing  at  all,"  she  said;  and  moved  over  to  the 
piano  and  began  one  of  his  favorite  airs.  And 
he  forgot  the  box  again  in  an  instant.  She  had 
always  been  able  to  make  Clarke  forget  things, 
when  she  wanted  to.  But  the  next  day  it  suddenly 
came  to  him,  out  of  that  nowhere-in-particular 
from  which  thoughts  come  to  mortals,  that  she 
had  been  almost  as  much  confused  at  his  sudden 
question  as  she  had  at  his  previous  sudden  en 
trance. 

Clarke  was  not  a  suspicious  person;  not  even  a 
very  curious  one,  as  a  rule.  But  it  was  so  evident 
to  him  that  there  was  something  in  that  box  which 
his  wife  did  not  wish  him  to  see  that  he  could  not 
help  but  wonder.  Always  frank  with  her,  and 
always  accustomed  to  an  equal  candor  on  her  part, 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  ask  her  again, 
in  something  more  than  a  casual  way,  and  that 

[246] 


The  Locked  Box 


she  would  certainly  tell  him,  at  the  same  time 
clearing  up  her  former  hesitation.  But  no ! — why 
should  he  ask  her?  That  would  be  to  make  some 
thing  out  of  nothing;  this  was  a  trifle,  and  not 
worth  thinking  about  But  he  continued  thinking 
about  it,  nevertheless.  .  .  . 

Ah,  he  had  it!  What  a  chump  he  had  been,  not 
to  guess  it  sooner!  His  birthday  was  only  ten 
days  off,  and  his  wife  had  been  planning  to  sur 
prise  him  with  a  remembrance  of  some  sort.  Of 
course !  That  accounted  for  the  whole  thing. 

With  this  idea  in  his  head,  he  said  nothing  more 
about  the  box,  but  waited.  And  when  dinner  was 
over  and  they  sat  before  the  fire  together,  on  the 
evening  of  the  anniversary,  he  still  forbore  to  men 
tion  it,  expecting  every  moment  that  the  next  she 
would  present  him  with  the  token.  But  as  the 
evening  wore  away,  with  no  sign  on  her  part,  he 
finally  broke  an  interval  of  silence  with  the  re 
mark: 

"Well,  dear,  don't  keep  me  guessing  any 
longer !  Bring  it  to  me !" 

"Guessing?    Bring  you — what?"    And  he  could 
see  that  she  was  genuinely  puzzled. 
"Why,  my  birthday  present." 
"Why,  my  dear  boy!    And  did  you  expect  one? 
And  I  had  forgotten !    Positively  forgotten — it  is 
your  birthday,   isn't  it,   Dickie!     If  I  had  only 

known  you  wanted  one "     And  she  came  up 

and  kissed  him,  with  something  like  contrition, 
although  his  birthday  had  never  been  one  of  the 

[247] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


sentimental  anniversaries  which  she  felt  bound  to 
observe  with  gifts. 

"Don't  feel  bad  about  it— I  don't  care,  you 
know— really,"  he  said.  "Only,  I  thought  you  had 
something  of  the  sort  in  that  brass-bound  box — 
that  was  the  only  reason  I  mentioned  it." 

"Brass-bound  box — why,  no,  I — I  forgot  it. 
I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  but  I  forgot  the  date  en 
tirely!" 

But  she  volunteered  no  explanation  of  what  the 
box  contained,  although  the  opportunity  was  so 
good  a  one. 

And  Clarke  wondered  more  than  ever. 
What  could  it  be?  The  letters  of  some  former 
sweetheart?  Well,  all  girls  had  sweethearts  be- 
fore  they  married,  he  supposed;  at  least  all  men 
did.  He  had  had  several  himself.  There  was 
nothing  in  that.  And  he  would  not  make  an  ass 
of  himself  by  saying  any  more  about  it. 

Only  ...  he    could    not    remember    any    old 

sweethearts  that  he  wouldn't  have  told  Agnes  all 

about,  if  she  had  asked  him.    He  had  no  secrets 

from  her.     But  she  had  a  secret  from  him  .  .  ', 

innocent  enough,  of  course.     But  still,  a  secret. 

There  was  none  of  those  old  sweethearts  of  his 

whose  letters  he  cared  to  keep  after  five  years  of 

marriage.     And  there  was  no  ...  But,  steady! 

Where  were  his  reflections  leading  him?     Into 

something  very  like  suspicion?     Positively,  yes; 

to  the  verge  of  it.    Until  Agnes  got  ready  to  tell 

him  all  about  it,  he  would  forget  that  damned  box ! 

[248] 


The  Locked  Box 


And  if  she  never  got  ready,  why,  that  was  all 
right,  too.  She  was  his  wife,  and  he  loved  her 
.  .  .  and  that  settled  it. 

Perhaps  that  should  have  settled  it,  but  it  did 
not.  Certain  healthy-looking,  fleshy  specimens  of 
humanity  are  said  to  succumb  the  quickest  to  pneu 
monia,  and  it  may  be  that  the  most  ingenuous  na 
tures  suffer  the  most  intensely  with  suspicion,  when 
once  thoroughly  inoculated. 

II 

Clarke  fought  against  it,  cursing  his  own  base 
ness.     But  the  very  effort  necessary  to  the  fight 
showed  him  the  persistence  of  the  thing  itself. 
He  loved  his  wife,  and  trusted  her,  he  told  him 
self  over  and  over  again,  and  in  all  their  relations 
hitherto  there  had  never  been  the  slightest  devia 
tion  from  mutual  confidence  and  understanding. 
What  did  he  suspect?     He  could  not  have  told 
himself.     He  went  over  their  life  together  in  his 
mind.     In  the  five  years  of  their  married  life,  he 
could  not  have  helped  but  notice  that  men  were 
attracted  to  her.    Of  course  they  were.    That  was 
natural.     She  was  a  charming  woman.    He  quite 
approved  of  it;  it  reflected  credit  upon  him,  in  a 
way.     He  was  not  a  Bluebeard  of  a  husband,  to 
lock  a  wife  up  and  deny  her  the  society  proper  to 
her  years.    And  her  very  catholicity  of  taste,  the 
perfect  frankness  of  her  enjoyment  of  masculine 
attention,  had  but  served  to  make  his  confidence  all 

[249! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


the  more  complete.  True,  he  had  never  thought 
she  loved  him  as  much  as  he  loved  her  .  .  .  but 
now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  was  there  not  a 
warmer  quality  to  her  affection  since  his  return 
from  this  last  trip  west?  Was  there  not  a  kind  of 
thoughtfulness,  was  there  not  a  watchful  increase 
in  attentiveness,  that  he  had  always  missed  be 
fore?  Was  she  not  making  love  to  him  every 
day  now;  just  as  he  had  always  made  love  to  her 
before?  Were  not  the  parts  which  they  had 
played  for  the  five  years  of  their  married  life  sud 
denly  reversed?  They  were  !  Indeed  they  were ! 
And  what  did  that  mean?  What  did  that  por 
tend?  Did  the  brass-bound  box  have  aught  to  do 
with  that?  What  was  the  explanation  of  this 
change? 

The  subtle  imp  of  suspicion  turned  this  mat 
ter  of  the  exchanged  roles  into  capital.  Clarke, 
still  ashamed  of  himself  for  doing  it,  began  cov 
ertly  to  watch  his  wife;  to  set  traps  of  various 
kinds  for  her.  He  said  nothing  more  about  the 
box,  but  within  six  months  after  the  first  day  upon 
which  he  had  seen  it,  it  became  the  constant  com 
panion  of  his  thoughts. 

What  did  he  suspect?  Not  even  now  could  he 
have  said.  He  suspected  nothing  definite ;  vaguely, 
he  suspected  anything  and  everything.  If  his  wife 
noticed  his  changed  manner  towards  her,  she  made 
no  sign.  If  anything,  her  efforts  to  please  him,  her 
attentiveness,  her  thoughtfulness  in  small  things, 
increased. 

[250] 


The  Locked  Box 


III 

There  came  a  day  when  he  could  stand  this 
self-torture  no  longer,  he  thought.  He  came  home 
from  his  office — Clarke  was  a  partner  in  a  pros 
perous  real-estate  concern — at  an  hour  when  he 
thought  his  wife  not  yet  returned  from  an  after 
noon  of  call  making,  determined  to  end  the  mat 
ter  once  for  all. 

He  went  to  her  room,  found  the  key  to  her  desk, 
and  opened  the  drawer.  He  found  the  box,  but 
it  was  locked,  and  he  began  rummaging  through 
the  drawers,  and  among  the  papers  and  letters 
therein,  for  the  key. 

Perhaps  she  carried  it  with  her.  Very  well, 
then,  he  would  break  it  open !  With  the  thing  in 
his  hand  he  began  to  look  around  for  something 
with  which  to  force  the  fastenings,  and  was  about 
deciding  that  he  would  take  it  down  to  the  base 
ment,  and  use  the  hatchet,  when  he  heard  a  step. 
He  turned,  just  as  his  wife  entered  the  room. 

Her  glance  traveled  from  the  box  in  his  hand 
to  the  ransacked  desk,  and  rested  there  inquir 
ingly  for  a  moment.  Strangely  enough,  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  he  felt  himself  an  injured  husband 
and  well  within  his  rights,  it  was  Clarke  who  be 
came  confused,  apologetic,  and  evasive  under  her 
gaze.  He  essayed  a  clumsy  lie : 

"Agnes,"  he  began,  indicating  the  desk,  "I — I 
got  a  bill  to-day  from  Meigs  and  Horner,  for  those 
furs,  you  know — I  was  sure  that  the  account  had 

[251] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


been  settled — that  you  had  paid  them,  and  had 
shown  me  the  receipt — that  you  had  paid  them 
from  your  allowance,  you  know — and  I  thought 
I  would  come  home  and  look  up  the  receipt." 

It  was  very  lame ;  and  very  lamely  done,  at  that, 
as  he  felt  even  while  he  was  doing  it.  But  it  gave 
him  an  opportunity  of  setting  the  box  down  on  the 
desk  almost  in  a  casual  manner,  as  if  he  had  picked 
it  up  quite  casually,  while  he  began  to  tumble  the 
papers  again  with  his  hands. 

"The  receipt  is  here,"  she  said;  and  got  it  for 
him. 

The  box  lay  between  them,  but  they  did  not  look 
at  it,  nor  at  each  other,  and  they  both  trembled 
with  agitation. 

Each  knew  that  the  thoughts  of  the  other  were 
on  nothing  except  that  little  locked  receptacle  of 
wood  and  brass,  yet  neither  one  referred  to  it; 
and  for  a  full  half  minute  they  stood  with  averted 
faces,  and  fumbling  hands,  and  played  out  the  de 
ception. 

Finally  she  looked  full  at  him,  and  drew  a  long 
breath,  as  if  the  story  were  coming  now;  and 
there  was  in  her  manner  a  quality  of  softness — 
almost  of  sentimentality,  Clarke  felt.  She  was 
getting  ready  to  try  and  melt  him  into  a  kind  of 
sympathy  for  her  frailty,  was  she!  Well,  that 
would  not  work  with  him !  And  with  the  receipted 
bill  waving  in  his  hand,  he  made  it  the  text  of  a 
lecture  on  extravagance,  into  which  he  plunged 
with  vehemence. 

[252] 


The  Locked  Box 


Why  did  he  not  let  her  speak?  He  would  not 
admit  the  real  reason  to  himself,  just  then.  But 
in  his  heart  he  was  afraid  to  have  her  go  on. 
Afraid,  either  way  it  turned.  If  she  were  inno 
cent  of  any  wrong,  he  would  have  made  an  ass  of 
himself — and  much  worse  than  an  ass.  If  she 
were  guilty,  she  might  melt  him  into  a  weak  for 
giveness  in  spite  of  her  guilt!  No,  she  must  not 
speak  .  .  .  not  now!  If  she  were  innocent,  how 
could  he  confess  his  suspicions  to  her  and  acknowl 
edge  his  baseness?  And  besides  .  .  .  women 
were  so  damned  clever  .  .  .  whatever  was  in  that 
box,  she  might  fool  him  about  it,  somehow! 

And  then,  "Good  God!"  he  thought,  "I  have 
got  to  the  place  where  I  hug  my  suspicion  to  me  as 
a  dearer  thing  than  my  love,  have  I  ?  Have  I  got 
so  low  as  that?" 

While  these  thoughts  raced  and  rioted  through 
his  mind,  his  lips  were  feverishly  pouring  out 
torrents  in  denunciation  of  feminine  extravagance. 
Even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  the  black  injustice  of  his 
speech,  for  he  had  always  encouraged  his  wife, 
rather  than  otherwise,  in  the  expenditure  of 
money;  his  income  was  a  good  one;  and  the  very 
furs  which  formed  the  text  of  his  harangue  he  had 
helped  her  select  and  even  urged  upon  her. 

It  was  their  first  quarrel,  if  that  can  be  called 
a  quarrel  which  has  only  one  side  to  it.  For  she 
listened  in  silence,  with  white  lips  and  hurt  eyes, 
and  a  face  that  was  soon  set  into  a  semblance  of 
hard  indifference.  He  stormed  out  of  the  room, 

[253] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


ashamed  of  himself,  and  feeling  that  he  had  dis 
graced  the  name  of  civilization. 

IV 

Ashamed  of  himself,  indeed;  but  before  the 
angel  of  contrition  could  take  full  possession  of 
his  nature,  the  devil  of  suspicion,  the  imp  of  the 
box,  regained  its  place. 

For  why  had  she  not  answered  him?  She  knew 
he  cared  nothing  about  the  trivial  bill,  the  matter 
of  the  furs,  he  told  himself.  Why  had  she  not  in 
sisted  on  a  hearing,  and  told  him  about  the  box? 
She  knew  as  well  as  he  that  that  was  what  he  had 
broken  into  her  desk  to  get! 

Justice  whispered  that  she  had  been  about  to 
speak,  and  that  he  had  denied  her  the  chance. 
But  the  imp  of  the  box  said  that  an  honest  woman 
would  have  demanded  the  chance — would  have 
persisted  until  she  got  it!  And  thus,  his  very 
shame,  and  anger  at  himself,  were  cunningly 
turned  and  twisted  by  the  genius  of  the  brass- 
bound  box  into  a  confirmation  of  his  suspicions. 

V 

Suspicions?  Nay,  convictions!  Beliefs.  Cer 
tainties  ! 

They  were  certainties,  now!  Certainties  to 
Clarke's  mind,  at  least.  For  in  a  month  after  this 
episode  he  had  become  a  silent  monomaniac  on 

[254] 


The  Locked  Box 


the  subject  of  the  brass-bound  box.  He  felt  shame 
no  longer.  She  was  guilty.  Of  just  what,  he 
did  not  know.  But  guilty.  Guilty  as  Hell  itself, 
he  told  himself,  rhetorically,  in  one  of  the 
dumb  rages  which  now  became  so  frequent  with 
him. 

Guilty — guilty — guilty — the  clock  on  the  man 
telpiece  ticked  off  many  dragging  hours  of  intol 
erable  minutes  to  that  tune,  while  Clarke  lay 
awake  and  listened.  Guilty — guilty — guilty — re 
peat  any  word  often  enough,  and  it  will  hypnotize 
you.  Guilty — guilty — guilty — so  he  and  the  clock 
would  talk  to  each  other,  back  and  forth,  the  whole 
night  through.  If  any  suggestions  of  his  former, 
more  normal  habits  of  thought  came  to  him  now 
it  was  they  that  were  laughed  out  of  court;  it  was 
they  that  were  flung  away  and  scorned  as 
traitors. 

She  was  guilty.  But  he  would  be  crafty!  He 
would  be  cunning.  He  would  make  no  mistake. 
He  would  allow  her  no  subterfuge.  He  would 
give  her  no  chance  to  snare  him  back  into  a  condi 
tion  of  half  belief.  There  should  be  no  juggling 
explanations.  They  were  clever  as  the  devil, 
women  were !  But  this  one  should  have  no  chance 
to  fool  him  again.  She  had  fooled  him  too  long 
already. 

And  she  kept  trying  to  fool  him.  Shortly  after 
his  outburst  over  the  furs,  she  began  again  a  series 
of  timid  advances  which  would  have  struck  him  as 
pathetic  had  he  not  known  that  her  whole  nature 

[255] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


was  corroded  and  corrupted  with  deceit,  with 
abominable  deceit.  She  was  trying  to  make  him 
believe  that  she  did  not  know  why  he  was  angry 
and  estranged,  was  she?  He  would  show  her! 
He  hated  her  now,  with  that  restless,  burning  in 
tensity  of  hatred  known  only  to  him  who  has  in 
jured  another.  A  hatred  that  consumed  his  own 
vitality,  and  made  him  sick  in  soul  and  body.  The 
little  sleep  he  got  was  passed  in  uneasy  dreams  of 
his  revenge ;  and  his  waking  hours  were  devoted  to 
plots  and  plans  of  the  form  which  it  should  take. 
Oh,  but  she  had  been  cunning  to  fool  him  for  so 
long;  but  she  should  see !  She  should  see !  When 
the  time  for  action  came,  she  should  see! 


VI 


Something,  one  tense  and  feverish  midnight, 
when  he  lay  in  his  bed  snarling  and  brooding  and 
chuckling — a  kind  of  snapping  sense  in  some  re 
mote  interior  chamber  of  his  brain,  followed  by  a 
nervous  shock  that  made  him  sit  upright — warned 
him  that  the  time  for  action  was  at  hand.  What 
is  it  that  makes  sinners,  at  provincial  revival  meet 
ings,  suddenly  aware  that  the  hours  of  dalliance 
are  past  and  the  great  instant  that  shall  send  them 
to  "the  mourners'  bench'1  is  at  hand?  Somehow, 
they  seem  to  know!  And,  somehow,  Clarke  felt 
an  occult  touch  and  knew  that  his  time  for  action 
had  arrived. 

He  did  not  care  what  came  afterwards.  Any 
[256] 


The  Locked  Box 


jury  in  the  world,  so  he  told  himself,  ought  to  ac 
quit  him  of  his  deed,  when  they  once  knew  his 
story;  when  they  once  looked  at  the  damning  evi 
dence  of  her  guilt  which  she  had  hidden  away  for 
so  long  in  the  brass-bound  box.  But  if  they  did 
not  acquit  him,  that  was  all  right,  too.  His  work 
in  the  world  would  have  been  done ;  he  would  have 
punished  a  guilty  woman.  He  would  have  shown 
that  all  men  are  not  fools. 

But  he  did  not  spend  a  great  deal  of  thought 
on  how  other  people  would  regard  what  he  was 
about  to  do.  As  he  crept  down  the  hall  with  the 
knife  in  his  hand,  his  chief  sensation  was  a  pre 
monitory  itch,  a  salty  tang  of  pleasure  in  the  doing 
of  the  deed  itself.  When  hatred  comes  in  where 
love  has  gone  out,  there  may  be  a  kind  of  volup 
tuary  delight  in  the  act  of  murder. 

Very  carefully  he  opened  the  door  of  her  room. 
And  then  he  smiled  to  himself,  and  entered  noisily; 
for  what  was  the  need  of  being  careful  about  wak 
ing  up  a  woman  who  was  already  dead?  He  did 
not  care  whether  he  killed  her  in  her  sleep  or  not; 
— indeed,  if  she  wakened  and  begged  for  her  life, 
he  thought  it  might  add  a  certain  zest  to  the  busi 
ness.  He  should  enjoy  hearing  her  plead.  He 
would  not  mind  prolonging  things. 

But  things  were  not  prolonged.  His  hand  and 
the  muscles  of  his  forearm  had  tensed  so  often 
with  the  thought,  with  the  idea,  that  the  first  blow 
went  home.  She  never  waked. 

[2571 


Carter  and  Other  People 


VII 

He  got  the  box,  and  opened  it. 
Inside  was  a  long  envelope,  and  written  on  that 
were  the  words : 

"To  be  opened  by  my  husband  only  after  my 
death." 

That  time  had  come ! 

Within  the  envelope  was  a  letter.  It  was  dated 
on  the  day  of  his  return  from  his  western  trip, 
a  few  months  before.  He  read: 

"Dick,  I  love  you ! 

"Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  I  should 
write  it  down? 

"Listen,  Dickie  dear — I  had  to  write  it!  I 
couldn't  tell  you  when  I  was  alive — but  I  just  had 
to  tell  you,  too.  And  now  that  I  am  dead,  what  I 
say  will  come  to  you  with  all  of  its  sweetness  in 
creased;  and  all  of  its  bitterness  left  out!  It  will, 
now  that  I  am  dead — or  if  you  die  first,  you  will 
never  see  this.  This  is  from  beyond  the  grave  to 
you,  Dickie  dear,  to  make  all  your  life  good  to 
you  afterwards! 

"Now,  listen,  dear,  and  don't  be  hard  on  me. 

"When  I  married  you,  Dickie,  I  didn't  love 
you !  You  were  wild  about  me.  But  I  only  liked 
you  very  much.  It  wasn't  really  love.  It  wasn't 
what  you  deserved.  But  I  was  only  a  girl,  and  you 
were  the  first  man,  and  I  didn't  know  things;  I 
didn't  know  what  I  should  have  felt. 

[258] 


The  Locked  Box 


"Later,  when  I  realized  how  very  much  you 
cared,  I  was  ashamed  of  myself.  I  grew  to  see 
that  I  had  done  wrong  in  marrying  you.  Wrong 
to  both  of  us.  For  no  woman  should  marry  a  man 
she  doesn't  love.  And  I  was  ashamed,  and  wor 
ried  about  it.  You  were  so  good  to  me!  So 
sweet — and  you  never  suspected  that  I  didn't  care 
like  I  should.  And  because  you  were  so  good  and 
sweet  to  me,  I  felt  worse.  And  I  made  up  my 
mind  you  should  never  know!  That  I  would  be 
everything  to  you  any  woman  could  be.  I  tried 
to  be  a  good  wife.  Wasn't  I,  Dickie,  even  then? 

"But  I  prayed  and  prayed  and  prayed.  'O 
God,'  I  used  to  say,  'let  me  love  him  like  he  loves 
me!'  It  was  five  years,  Dickie,  and  I  liked  you 
more,  and  admired  you  more,  and  saw  more  in 
you  that  was  worth  while,  every  week;  but  still,  no 
miracle  happened. 

"And  then  one  morning  a  miracle  did  happen! 

"It  was  when  you  were  on  that  trip  West.  I 
had  gone  to  bed  thinking  how  kind  and  dear  you 
were.  I  missed  you,  Dickie  dear,  and  needed  you. 
And  when  I  woke  up,  there  was  a  change  over  the 
world.  I  felt  so  different,  somehow.  It  had 
come!  Wasn't  it  wonderful,  Dickie? — it  had 
come !  And  I  sang  all  that  day  for  joy.  I  could 
hardly  wait  for  you  to  come  home  so  that  I  could 
tell  you.  I  loved  you,  loved  you,  loved  you, 
Dickie,  as  you  deserved!  My  prayers  had  been 
answered,  somehow — or  maybe  it  was  what  any 
woman  would  do  just  living  near  you  and  being 
with  you. 

"And  then  I  saw  /  couldn't  tell  you,  after  all! 

"For  if  I  told  you  I  loved  you  now,  that  would 
[259] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


be  to  tell  you  that  for  five  years  /  hadn't  loved 
you,  Dickie ! 

"And  how  would  that  make  you  feel?  Wouldn't 
that  have  been  like  a  knife,  Dickie? 

"Oh,  I  wanted  you  to  know!  How  I  wanted 
you  to  know !  But,  you  see,  I  couldn't  tell  you, 
could  I,  dear,  without  telling  the  other,  too?  I 
just  had  to  save  you  from  that!  And  I  just  had 
to  make  you  feel  it,  somehow  or  other.  And  I 
will  make  you  feel  it,  Dickie ! 

"But  I  can't  tell  you.  Who  knows  what  ideas 
you  might  get  into  your  head  about  those  five 
years,  if  I  told  you  now?  Men  are  so  queer,  and 
they  can  be  so  stupid  sometimes!  And  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  losing  one  smallest  bit  of  your 
love  .  .  .  not  now !  It  would  kill  me ! 

"But  I  want  you  to  know,  sometime.  And  so 
I'm  writing  you — it's  my  first  love  letter — the  first 
real  one,  Dickie.  If  you  die  first,  I'll  tell  you  in 
Heaven.  And  if  /  die  first,  you'll  understand ! 

"AGNES." 


XII. — Behind  the  Curtain 


XII. — Behind  the  Curtain 

IT  was  as  dark  as  the  belly  of  the  fish  that 
swallowed  Jonah.  A  drizzling  rain  blanketed  the 
earth  in  chill  discomfort.  As  I  splashed  and  strug 
gled  along  the  country  road,  now  in  the  beaten 
path,  and  now  among  the  wet  weeds  by  its  side, 
I  had  never  more  heartily  yearned  for  the  dullness 
and  comforts  of  respectability.  Here  was  I  with 
more  talents  in  my  quiver,  it  pleased  me  to  think, 
than  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  burghers  I  had  left 
sleeping  snug  and  smug  in  the  town  a  few  miles 
behind;  with  as  much  real  love  of  humanity  as 
the  next  man,  too;  and  yet  shivering  and  cursing 
my  way  into  another  situation  that  might  well 
mean  my  death.  And  all  for  what?  For  fame  or 
riches?  No,  for  little  more  than  a  mere  existence, 
albeit  free  from  responsibility.  Indeed,  I  was  all 
but  ready  to  become  an  honest  man  then  and  there, 
to  turn  back  and  give  up  the  night's  adventure, 
had  but  my  imagination  furnished  me  with  the 
picture  of  some  occupation  whereby  I  might  gain 
the  same  leisure  and  independence  as  by  what  your 
precisians  call  thieving. 

With  the  thought  I  stumbled  off  the  road  again, 
and  into  a  narrow  gully  that  splashed  me  to  the 
knees  with  muddy  water.  Out  of  that,  I  walked 

[263] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


plump  into  a  hedge,  and  when  I  sought  to  turn 
from  it  at  right  angles,  I  found  myself  still  fol 
lowing  its  line.  This  circumstance  showed  me 
that  I  was  come  unaware  upon  the  sharp  turn  of 
the  road  which  marked  the  whereabouts  of  the 
house  that  was  my  object.  Following  the  hedge, 
I  found  the  entrance  to  the  graveled  driveway 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  my  last  misstep,  and 
entered  the  grounds.  I  groped  about  me  for  a 
space,  not  daring  to  show  a  light,  until  presently 
a  blacker  bulk,  lifting  itself  out  of  the  night's  com 
prehensive  blackness,  indicated  the  house  itself, 
to  my  left  and  a  bit  in  front  of  me.  I  left  the 
moist  gravel — for  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained 
on  an  expedition  of  this  sort  by  advertising  the 
size  and  shape  of  your  boots  to  a  morbidly  in 
quisitive  public — and  reached  the  shelter  of  the 
veranda  by  walking  across  the  lawn. 

There,  being  out  of  eyeshot  from  the  upper 
windows,  I  risked  a  gleam  from  my  pocket  lan 
tern,  one  of  those  little  electric  affairs  that  are 
occasionally  useful  to  others  than  night  watchmen. 
Two  long  French  windows  gave  on  the  veranda; 
and,  as  I  knew,  both  of  them  opened  from  the 
reception  hall.  A  bit  of  a  way  with  the  women  is 
not  amiss  in  my  profession;  and  the  little  gray- 
eyed  Irish  maid,  who  had  told  me  three  weeks 
before  of  old  man  Rolfe's  stinginess  and  brutality 
towards  the  young  wife  whom  he  had  cooped  up 
here  for  the  past  four  years,  had  also  given  me, 
bit  by  bit,  other  information  more  valuable  than 

[264] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


she  could  guess.  So,  thanks  to  the  maid,  I  was 
aware  that  the  safe  where  the  Rolfe  jewels  were 
kept — and  often  a  substantial  bit  of  money  as 
well — was  situated  in  the  library;  which  was  just 
beyond  the  hall  and  connected  with  it  by  a  flight  of 
four  or  five  steps.  This  safe  was  my  objective 
point. 

The  wooden  window  shutters  were  but  the  work 
of  a  moment;  and  the  window  fastenings  them 
selves  of  only  a  few  minutes  more.  (I  flatter  my 
self  that  I  have  a  very  coaxing  way  with  window 
fasteners.)  The  safe  itself  would  give  me  the 
devil's  own  trouble,  I  knew.  It  was  really  a  job 
for  two  men,  and  I  ached  all  over  to  be  at  it,  to 
be  safely  through  with  it,  and  away,  a  good  hour 
before  sunrise. 

The  window  opened  noiselessly  enough,  and  I 
stepped  within  and  set  my  little  satchel  full  of 
necessary  tools  upon  the  floor.  But  the  damp 
weather  had  swelled  the  woodwork,  and  as  I  closed 
the  window  again,  though  I  pushed  it  ever  so 
gently,  it  gave  forth  a  noise  something  between  a 
grunt  and  a  squeak. 

And  as  pat  as  the  report  of  a  pistol  to  the  pres 
sure  of  the  trigger  came  the  answer — a  sound  of  a 
quickly-caught  breath  from  the  warm  dimness  of 
the  room.  I  made  no  motion;  though  the  blood 
drummed  desperately  through  my  brain  and  my 
scalp  tingled  with  apprehension  and  excitement. 

For  ten,  for  twenty,  for  thirty  seconds  I  stood 
so ;  and  then  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  unmis- 

[265] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


takable  rustle  of  a  woman's  skirts.  The  sound 
came  softly  towards  me  through  the  darkness.  It 
was  my  turn  to  let  loose  my  held  breath  with  a 
gasp,  and  in  another  moment  I  should  have  been 
through  the  window  and  running  for  it;  when  a 
woman's  whisper  halted  me. 

"Is  that  you,  Charles?  And  why  did  you  not 
rap  upon  the  shutter?" 

So  some  one  called  Charles  was  expected? 
Then,  ticked  off  my  thoughts  almost  automatically, 
the  lady  somewhere  near  me  in  the  dark  might 
have  her  own  reasons  for  not  caring  to  alarm  the 
house  just  then!  The  thought  steadied  me  to 
action. 

"Shh,"  I  whispered,  feeling  behind  me  for  the 
window,  and  gradually  opening  it  again.  "S-h-h ! 
No,  it  is  not  Charles" — and  I  put  one  foot  back 
ward  across  the  sill.  "It  is  not  Charles,  but 
Charles  has  sent  me  to  say " 

Click ! — went  something  by  the  window,  and  the 
room  was  flooded  with  sudden  brilliance  from  a 
dozen  electric  globes.  And  again,  click! — and  I 
looked  with  blinking  eyes  at  the  muzzle  of  a  cocked 
pistol  held  by  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  be- 
jeweled,  the  most  determined-looking  young 
woman  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  that  was 
at  once  hoarse  and  sweet.  "Who  are  you?  And 
what  do  you  want?  And  where  is  Charles?" 

As  I  stood  there  dripping  moisture  upon  the 
oiled  floor,  with  my  hands  in  the  air — they  had 

[266] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


gone  up  quite  involuntarily — I  must  have  been 
the  very  picture  of  idiocy  and  discomfiture.  I 
wondered  if  Charles,  whoever  the  devil  Charles 
might  be,  was  always  welcomed  with  a  cocked 
pistol.  Probably  not;  but,  I  wondered,  how  did 
she  happen  to  have  a  pistol  with  her?  I  won 
dered  why  neck,  breast,  hair,  arms,  and  hands 
should  be  ablaze  with  the  diamonds  that  accen 
tuated  her  lithe  and  vivid  loveliness.  I  wondered 
why,  now  that  she  saw  I  was  not  Charles,  she  did 
not  alarm  the  house.  I  wondered  everything;  but 
nothing  to  the  point.  And  as  I  stood  wondering 
she  repeated: 

"Who  are  you?     And  what  do  you  want?" 

"Madame,"  I  stammered,  my  jarred  brain  fas 
tening  upon  the  sentence  she  had  interrupted, 
"Charles  sent  me  to — to  say  to  you " 

"Charles  who  ?"  she  asked.  And  as  tense  as  was 
her  face,  a  gleam  of  merriment  shot  through  her 
eyes.  "Charles  who?"  she  repeated. 

Charles  was  not  one  of  the  points  upon  which 
the  Irish  maid  had  given  me  information. 

The  lady  with  the  pistol  considered  for  a  mo 
ment.  "You  are  not  very  clever,  are  you?"  she 
said. 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "I  think  I  had 
better  be  going.  I  seem  to  have  mistaken  the 
house." 

"You  at  least  seem  to  have  mistaken  the  proper 
manner  in  which  to  enter  it,"  she  returned. 

"Why,  as  to  the  mode  of  entrance,"  I  said,  "I 
[267] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


might  plead  that  the  mistake  appears  to  have  been 
less  in  that  than  in  the  person  who  employed  it." 

I  could  not  resist  the  retort.  A  dull  red  crept 
slowly  up  her  neck  and  face ;  a  pallid,  olive-tinted 
face,  beautiful  in  itself,  beautiful  for  its  oval  con 
tour  and  broad  brow,  and  frame  of  black  hair; 
beautiful  in  itself,  and  yet  dominated  and  outdone 
by  the  lustrous,  restless  beauty  of  the  dark  eyes 
wherewith  she  held  me  more  surely  captive  than 
by  virtue  of  the  pistol. 

''You  will  come  in,"  she  said,  "and  sit  there." 
She  indicated  a  seat  beside  a  central  table.  "But 
first  you  will  kindly  let  me  have  whatever  weapons 
you  may  possess."  She  took  my  revolver,  exam 
ined  it,  and  put  her  own  in  the  breast  of  her 
gown.  "Now  you  may  put  your  hands  down,"  she 
said,  "your  arms  must  ache  by  now.  Sit  down." 

I  sat.  She  stood  and  looked  at  me  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"I  am  wondering  what  you  are  going  to  do  with 
me,"  I  ventured. 

In  all  of  her  quick  actions,  and  in  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  there  was  evident  a  most  unnatural  sort 
of  strain.  She  may  well  have  been  excited;  that 
was  only  to  be  expected  in  the  circumstances.  But 
the  repressed  excitement  in  this  woman's  manner 
was  not  that  of  a  woman  who  is  forcing  herself 
to  keep  her  courage  up ;  not  that  of  a  woman  who 
would  like  to  scream ;  but  a  steadier  nervous  energy 
which  seemed  to  burn  in  her  like  a  fire,  to  escape 
from  her  finger  tips,  and  almost  to  crackle  in  her 

[268] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


hair;  an  intensity  that  was  vibrant.  I  marveled. 
Most  women  would  have  screamed  at  the  advent 
of  a  man  in  the  dead  of  night;  screamed  and 
fainted.  Or  the  ones  who  would  not,  and  who 
were  armed  as  she,  would  ordinarily  have  been  in 
clined  to  shoot,  and  at  once;  or  immediately  to 
have  given  the  alarm.  She  had  done  none  of  these 
things.  She  had  merely  taken  me  captive  She 
had  set  me  down  in  a  chair  at  the  center  of  the 
room.  She  had  not  roused  the  house.  And  now 
she  stood  looking  at  me  with  a  trace  of  abstraction 
in  her  manner;  looking  at  me,  for  the  moment, 
less  as  if  I  were  a  human  being  than  as  if  I  were 
a  factor  in  some  mathematical  problem  which  it 
was  the  immediate  task  of  that  active,  high-keyed 
brain  of  hers  to  solve.  And  there  was  a  measure 
of  irony  in  her  glance,  as  if  she  alone  tasted  and 
enjoyed  some  ulterior  jest. 

"I  am  wondering,"  I  repeated,  "what  you  are 
going  to  do  with  me.1' 

She  sat  down  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table 
before  she  replied. 

"I  believe,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  I  have  nearly 
made  up  my  mind  what  to  do  with  you." 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

But  she  said  nothing,  and  continued  to  say 
nothing.  I  looked  at  her  and  her  diamonds — the 
diamonds  I  had  come  after! — and  wondered  again 
why  she  was  wearing  them;  wondered  why  she 
had  tricked  herself  out  as  for  some  grand  enter 
tainment.  And  as  the  ignominious  result  of  my 

[269] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


night's  expedition  pressed  more  sharply  against 
my  pride  I  could  have  strangled  her  through  sheer 
disappointment  and  mortification.  The  pistol  she 
held  was  the  answer  to  that  impulse.  But  what 
was  the  answer  to  her  hesitancy  in  alarming  the 
house?  Why  did  she  not  give  me  up  and  be  done 
with  me? 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  room  was  a  long  red 
curtain,  which  covered  the  entrance  to  a  sitting- 
room  pr  parlor,  as  I  guessed;  and  by  the  side  of 
the  curtain  hung  an  old-fashioned  bell  cord,  also 
of  red,  which  I  supposed  to  communicate  with  the 
servants'  quarters.  It  were  easy  enough,  now  that 
she  had  taken  the  whip  hand  of  me  so  cleverly, 
to  pull  that  rope,  to  set  the  bell  jangling,  to  rouse 
the  house.  Why  did  she  not  do  so? 

Was  she  a  mad  woman?  There  was  that  in  her 
inexplicable  conduct,  and  in  her  highly-wrought, 
yet  governed,  mood,  as  she  sat  in  brooding  silence 
across  the  table  from  me,  to  make  the  theory 
plausible.  Brooding  she  was,  and  studying  me,  I 
thought;  yet  watchful,  too.  For  at  any  least  mo 
tion  of  mine  her  hand  tightened  slightly  upon  the 
pistol.  We  sat  thus  while  the  slow  seconds  length 
ened  into  intolerable  minutes ;  and  I  steamed  with 
sweat,  and  fidgeted.  Nor  was  I  set  more  at  my 
ease  by  her  long  searching  glances.  In  fact,  my 
overthrow  had  been  so  instant  and  so  complete  that 
my  scattered  wits  had  never  drawn  themselves  to 
gether  again;  I  continued  as  one  in  a  haze;  as  a 
person  half  under  the  power  of  the  hypnotist;  as 

[270] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


a  mouse  must  feel  after  the  first  blow  of  the  cat's 
paw.  And  yet  one  idea  began  to  loom  clearly  out 
of  that  haze  and  possess  me — the  idea  that  she  de 
sired  the  alarm  to  be  given  as  little  as  I  did  my 
self. 

But  there  was  no  light  in  that.  It  was  easy  to 
understand  why  she  did  not  wish  the  house  aroused 
while  she  still  believed  me  to  be  Charles — who 
ever  Charles  might  be.  But  now? — it  was  too 
much  for  me.  I  could  not  find  a  justification  in 
reason  for  my  belief;  and  yet  the  conviction  grew. 

She  broke  the  silence  with  a  question  that  might 
have  been  put  with  full  knowledge  of  my  thought. 

"You  are  still  wondering  why  I  do  not  give  you 
up?"  she  said. 

I  nodded.  She  leaned  towards  me  across  the 
table,  and  if  ever  the  demons  of  mockery  danced 
through  a  woman's  eyes  it  was  then;  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  kind  of  silent  laughter. 

She  touched  the  diamonds  about  her  throat. 

"It  was  these  you  came  after?" 

I  nodded  again.  Evidently  speech  was  of  no 
avail  with  this  lady.  She  asked  questions  at  her 
will,  and  reserved  the  right  of  answering  none. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "Why  are  you  a  thief? 
Why  do  you  steal?" 

"  'Convey,  the  wise  it  call,'  "  I  quoted.  "Acci 
dent,  or  fate,  or  destiny,  I  suppose,"  I  went  on, 
wondering  more  than  ever  at  the  question,  but 
with  a  fluttering  hope.  Perhaps  the  lady  (in 
spite  of  Charles — such  things  have  been!)  was  an 

[271! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


amateur  sociologist,  a  crank  reformer,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort.  There  had  been  no  mockery 
in  her  tone  when  she  asked  the  question;  instead,  I 
thought,  a  kind  of  pity.  "Fate,  or  destiny,"  I  went 
on,  "or  what  you  please,  'There  is  a  destiny  that 
shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  how  we  will,'  ' 
I  quoted  again,  in  my  best  actor  manner. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  man  with  some  air 
of  better  things  about  you.  You  quote  Shake 
speare  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend.  And  yet,  you 
are  a  thief!  Tell  me,"  she  continued,  "tell  me — 
I  dare  say  there  were  many  struggles  against  that 
destiny?"  There  was  a  note  almost  of  eagerness 
in  her  voice,  as  if  she  were  a  leniently-inclined 
judge  who  would  fain  search  out  and  put  in  the 
mouth  of  a  condemned  man  some  plausible  plea 
for  the  exercise  of  clemency.  "Come — were  there 
not? — I  dare  say  there  were — circumstances  of 
uncommon  bitterness  that  forced  you  to  become 
what  I  see  you?  And  even  now  you  hate  the  thing 
you  are?" 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  I  said,  possessed  of  the  sud 
den  whim  to  be  honest  with  myself  for  once,  "I 
am  afraid  that  I  can  complain  of  no  bitterer  usage 
at  the  hands  of  the  world  than  can  the  majority 
of  those  who  reap  where  they  have  not  sowed. 
When  I  think  of  it  all,  I  am  used  to  putting  it  to 
myself  that  my  life  is  devoted  to  a  kind  of  private 
warfare  against  the  unjust  conditions  of  a  hypo 
critical  social  order." 

"Warfare!"  she  flouted,  hard  and  brilliant  as 
[272] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


one  of  her  own  diamonds  again.     "And  you  could 
justify  it,  too,  could  you  not?" 

And  then  she  asked  me:  "Have  you  ever  killed 
a  man?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  I,  "but  I  have  tried  to." 

"He  lived? — and  you  were  sorry  that  he 
lived?" 

"No,"  I  said,  quite  out  of  my  depths  in  all  this 
moral  quibbling,  "I  was  glad  he  lived." 

"And  yet  you  hated  him?" 

"I  would  have  taken  his  life  in  a  rage,"  I  said. 
"He  had  wronged  me  as  greatly  as  one  man  can 
wrong  another." 

"And  yet  you  were  glad  he  lived?  My  dear 
thief " 

"Higgins  is  the  name,"  said  I.  "You  may  call 
me  Higgins." 

"My  dear  Higgins,"  she  went  on,  "you  are  in 
consistent.  You  attempt  to  slay  a  man  in  what  I 
should  judge  to  have  been  a  not  ignoble  passion. 
It  may  have  been  an  anger  that  did  you  credit. 
And  yet  you  are  not  bold  enough  to  face  the 
thought  of  killing  him.  You  are  glib  with  justi 
fications  of  your  thievery;  and  perhaps  that  is  also 
because  you  are  too  much  of  a  coward  to  look 
steadily  at  it.  You  creep  along  a  mean  and  despic 
able  path  in  life,  contentedly,  it  seems  to  me,  with 
a  dead  soul.  You  are  what  you  are  because  there 
is  nothing  positive  in  you  for  either  good  or  evil. 
You  are  negative;  you  were  better  dead.  Yes, 
better  dead!" 

[273] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


Why  should  I  have  felt  as  if  she  were  seeking 
self-justification  in  advance  for  some  death  she 
planned  for  me  ?  Certainly,  my  life,  or  death,  was 
not  hers  to  give  or  take;  she  might  give  me  up, 
and  probably  would.  But  just  as  certainly  she  had 
made  me  feel,  as  she  passed  her  judgment  upon 
me,  that  she  was  likely  to  turn  executioner  as  well 
as  judge.  My  doubts  as  to  her  sanity  returned. 

"Still,"  I  said,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something, 
"if  I  killed  a  man,  I  should  not  like  to  think  about 
it,  even  if  he  deserved  death." 

"Even  if  he  deserved  death?"  she  repeated, 
and  sprang  up,  as  if  the  phrase  had  touched  her. 
"You  make  yourself  the  judge,  you  do,  of  when  a 
man  'deserves'  to  lose  his  wealth.  Come,  what  is 
your  idea  of  when  he  deserves  to  die?" 

Up  and  down  the  room  she  swept;  yet  still 
watchful.  And  the  emotion  which  she  had  so 
long  suppressed  burst  out  into  a  poisonous  lovely 
bloom  that  suffused  her  being  with  an  awful 
beauty. 

"When  does  he  deserve  to  die?"  she  repeated. 
"Listen  to  me.  I  knew  a  woman  once — no  matter 
where — no  matter  when — who  was  sold — sold !  I 
say — by  the  sordid  devil  she  called  her  father,  to 
the  veriest  beast  that  ever  trod  this  earth.  Her 
beauty — for  she  had  beauty — her  wit — for  wit  she 
had — became  this  husband's  chattels  before  she 
turned  her  twentieth  year.  She  would  never  have 
loved  him,  but  she  would  have  been  faithful  to 
him — she  was  faithful  to  him,  in  fact,  in  spite  of 

[274] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


all  his  drunkenness  and  bestiality — and  abuse !  It 
was  not  neglect  alone  that  she  had  to  complain  of 
— she  had  never  looked  for  understanding  or  sym 
pathy.  But  she  had  not  looked  for  abuse.  Abuse, 
I  say,  and  worse  than  abuse.  Before  she  had  been 
married  a  year  she  knew  what  it  was,  not  only  to 
feel  the  weight  of  a  heavy  hand  and  to  hide  the 
bruises  from  her  maid,  but  to  see  other  women 
brought  into  her  very  house.  Pah! — hate?  She 
hated  him?  Hate  is  not  the  word.  She  became  a 
live  coal.  But  she  never  cried  out;  she  found 
strength  to  smile  at  him  even  when  he  beat  her; 
she  was  proud  enough  for  that.  It  pleased  him,  in 
his  hellish  humor,  and  because  she  was  made  to 
shine,  to  cage  her  in  a  country  house,  and  there  to 
taunt  her  that  although  she  was  sold  to  him  she 
got  little  of  what  money  may  buy.  And  still  she 
smiled  at  him,  and  still  her  hatred  grew  through 
all  the  weeks  and  months  until  it  filled  her  whole 
being.  And  then — love  came.  For  God  has  or 
dained  that  love  may  enter  even  Hell.  Love,  I 
say;  and  she  loved  this  lover  of  hers  with  a  pas 
sion  that  was  measured  only  by  the  degree  in 
which  she  hated  her  husband.  And  she  would 
have  left  with  him;  but  on  the  very  night  they 
would  have  flown  together  her  lord  and  mas 
ter " 

She  said  the  words  with  an  indescribable  splut 
tering  sneer,  sidewise  from  her  mouth.  It  is  so 
a  lioness  may  snarl  and  spit  before  she  leaps. 

"Her — lord  and  master — found  it  out,  and 
[275] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


waited  up  to  catch  them;  and  coming  upon  her 
alone,  taunted  her.  Taunted  her,  and  struck 
her " 

"Look!"  she  cried,  and  tore  the  diamonds  from 
her  breast,  and  rent  the  laces,  and  wrenched  the 
fastenings  apart.  A  new  red  weal  that  seemed 
to  throb  and  pulse  with  her  respiration  stood  out 
from  the  whiteness  of  her  bosom. 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered  hoarsely,  "would  it 
have  been  murder  if  she  had  killed  that  man? 
Which  were  the  more  courageous  thing — to  kill 
him,  or  to  step  back  into  her  living  hell?  If  she 
had  killed  him,  would  she  have  regretted  it?" 

I  know  not  what  I  might  have  answered;  but 
at  that  instant  three  raps  sounded  distinctly  upon 
the  window-shutter.  I  leaped  to  my  feet.  Then 
Charles  had  come ! 

An  instant  she  stood  as  if  stricken  to  a  statue 
in  mid-rage. 

And  then  she  cried  out,  and  there  was  a  furious 
triumph  in  her  voice — a  kind  of  joy  that  matched 
itself  to,  and  blended  with,  the  fierce  and  reckless 
beauty  of  her  shaken  jewels,  possessed  her. 

"Charles,"  she  cried,  "come  in!    Come  in!" 

Slowly  the  window  opened  and  a  man  entered. 
He  drew  back  in  amaze  at  the  sight  of  me,  and 
turned  to  her  with  an  air  that  was  all  one  ques 
tion. 

"I  thought  you  would  never  come,"  she  said. 

He  was  a  big  blond  man,  and  as  he  turned  from 
the  one  to  the  other  of  us,  with  his  helpless,  in- 

[276] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


quiring  face,  and  eyes  that  blinked  from  the  outer 
darkness,  he  looked  oddly  like  a  sleepy  schoolboy 
who  has  been  awakened  from  an  afternoon  nap  by 
the  teacher's  ruler. 

"Katherine,"  he  finally  stammered,  "what  is 
this?  Who  is  this  man?"  He  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  as  one  may  do  who  doubts 
whether  or  not  he  dreams;  and  walked  towards 
the  table. 

"Charles,"  she  said,  "I  have  shot  the  old  man." 

I  have  seen  a  beef  stricken  on  the  head  with  a 
mallet  look  at  its  executioner  with  big  eyes  for  an 
instant  before  the  quivering  in  its  limbs  set  in  and 
it  sank  to  the  ground.  So  this  Charles  looked  with 
wide,  stupid  eyes,  and  shivered,  and  dropped  the 
great  bulk  of  him  into  a  chair.  His  head  sank 
upon  his  hand.  But  finally  he  looked  up,  and 
spoke  in  a  confused  voice,  as  if  through  a  mist. 

"Good  God,  Katherine,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  framing  the  words  slowly, 
as  one  speaks  a  lesson  to  a  child,  "I  mean  that  I 
have  killed  the  old  man." 

And  moving  swiftly  across  the  room  she  flung 
back  the  heavy  red  curtain  at  the  end  of  it;  and  I 
saw  the  answer  to  my  many  questionings. 

The  body  lay  upon  its  back,  with  one  arm  bent, 
the  hand  across  the  chest,  and  the  fingers  spread 
wide.  The  face  was  that  of  a  man  of  sixty  or 
thereabouts,  but,  indeed,  so  deeply  lined  and  wrin 
kled  and  pouched  with  evil  living  that  the  age  even 
in  life  must  have  been  hard  to  determine.  Blood 

[277! 


Carter  and  Other  People 


was  coagulating  about  a  bullet  wound  in  the  tem 
ple,  and  there  were  powder  burns  on  the  forehead. 
The  shot  had  been  fired  at  close  range,  evidently 
from  the  weapon  with  which  I  had  been  confronted 
on  my  entrance;  and  the  sound  had  been  so  muf 
fled  in  the  curtain  that  it  was  little  wonder  that 
the  servants  in  the  rooms  above,  and  across  the 
house,  had  not  heard  it.  He  had  a  monstrous 
nose,  that  man  upon  the  floor,  and  it  must  have 
been  a  red  nose  in  life;  but  now  it  w^as  of  a  bluish- 
white  color,  like  the  skin  of  an  old  and  scrawny 
fowl.  That,  and  the  thin,  drawn-up  legs,  and  the 
big  flabby  paunch  of  the  thing,  robbed  the  sight, 
for  me,  of  all  the  solemnity  which  (we  are  taught) 
exudes  from  the  presence  of  death.  It  made  me 
sick;  and  yet  I  cackled  with  sheer  hysteria,  too; 
or  rather  my  strained  nerves  jarred  and  laughed, 
if  not  myself.  It  was  too  damned  grotesque. 

Herself,  she  did  not  look  at  it.  She  looked  at 
the  man  called  Charles;  and  he,  with  a  shudder, 
lifted  his  slow  gaze  from  the  thing  behind  the  cur 
tain  to  her  face. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  the  terrible  joy 
with  which  she  had  bade  Charles  to  enter  still 
dominated  her  accents. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Charles?  This  man," 
and  she  indicated  me  with  the  pistol,  "this  man 
takes  the  blame  of  this.  He  is  a  thief.  He  came 
just  after — just  afterwards.  And  I  held  him  for 
your  coming.  Don't  you  see?  Don't  you  see? 
His  presence  clears  us  of  this  deed!" 

[278] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


"Us?"  queried  Charles. 

"Not  usT9  she  asked. 

"My  God,  Katherine,"  he  burst  forth,  "why  did 
you  do  this  thing?  And  you  would  heap  murder 
on  murder!  Why,  why,  why  did  you  do  it?  Why 
splash  this  blood  upon  our  love?  A  useless  thing 

to  do!  We  might  have — we  might  have " 

He  broke  down  and  sobbed.  And  then:  "God 
knows  the  old  man  never  did  me  any  harm,"  he 
said.  "And  she'd  accuse  the  thief,  too !"  he  cried 
a  moment  later,  with  a  kind  of  wondering  horror. 

"Listen,  Charles,"  she  said,  and  moved  towards 
him ;  and  yet  with  a  sidelong  glance  she  still  took 
heed  of  me.  "Listen,  and  understand  me.  We 
must  act  quickly — but  after  it  happened  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  see  you  before  we  could 
act.  This  man  came  to  rob;  here  is  his  pistol,  and 
in  that  satchel  by  the  window  are  his  tools,  no 
doubt.  He  may  tell  what  wild  tale  he  will;  but 
who  will  believe  him?  You  go  as  you  came;  I 
give  him  up — and  we — we  wait  awhile,  and  then 
the  rest  of  life  is  ours." 

I  suppose  that  it  is  given  to  few  men  to  hear 
their  death  plotted  in  their  presence.  But  I  had 
come  to  the  pass  by  this  time  where  it  struck  me  as 
an  impersonal  thing.  I  listened;  but  somehow  the 
full  sense  of  what  she  said,  as  affecting  me,  did 
not  then  impinge  upon  my  brain  with  waking  force. 
I  stood  as  if  in  a  trance;  I  stood  and  looked  on  at 
those  two  contending  personalities,  that  were  con 
cerned  just  now  with  the  question  of  my  life  or 

[279] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


death,  as  if  I  were  a  spectator  in  a  theater — as  if 
it  were  someone  else  of  whom  they  spoke. 

"Go,"  she  cried  to  Charles  again,  "and  I  will 
give  him  up." 

"Katherine,"  he  said,  "and  you  would  do  this 
thing?" 

"Why?"  she  retorted,  "what  is  this  man's  life 
beside  mine?  His  soul  is  dead!  I  tell  you, 
Charles,  that  I  have  come  through  Hell  alive  to 
gain  one  ray  of  happiness!  But  go! — and  leave 
the  rest  to  me." 

And  she  grasped  the  bell  cord  and  pulled  it. 
Pulled  it  again  and  again.  The  sound  wandered 
crazily  through  what  remote  corridors  I  know 
not. 

She  made  a  step  towards  him.  He  leaped  to 
his  feet  with  an  oath,  with  loathing  in  his  eyes, 
shrank  back  from  her,  and  held  out  a  hand  as  if 
to  ward  off  some  unclean  thing. 

Bewilderment  lined  her  face.  She  groped  to 
understand.  And  then,  as  the  full  significance  of 
his  gesture  came  home  to  her,  she  winced  and 
swayed  as  if  from  a  blow;  and  the  pistol  dropped 
from  her  loosened  grasp  to  the  floor. 

"You — you  abandon  me?"  she  said  slowly. 
"You  desert  me,  then?  Love,  Love,  think  how  I 
have  loved  you  that  I  did  this  thing!  And  is  what 
I  have  suffered — what  I  have  done — still  to  pur 
chase — nothing  ?" 

She  pleaded  for  my  death;  but  I  hope  that  I 
[280] 


Behind  the  Curtain 


shall  never  again  see  on  any  human  face  the  look 
of  despair  that  was  on  hers.     I  pitied  her! 

Heavy  feet  on  the  stairway  woke  me  from  my 
trance.  Unregarded  of  them  both  I  grasped  my 
pistol  from  the  floor  and  sprang  for  the  window. 
A  door  opened  somewhere  above,  and  a  voice 
asked : 

" You  rang,  Ma'am  ?" 

From  without  the  window  I  looked  back  into 
the  room.  She  stood  with  outstretched  hands — 
hands  that  reached  upward  from  the  pit  of  tor 
ment,  my  fancy  told  me — and  pleaded  for  a  little 
love.  "In  all  this  world  is  there  no  little  ray  of 
love  for  me?" — it  was  so  my  imagination  rather 
than  my  hearing  translated  the  slight  movement 
of  her  lips.  And  while  she  and  the  man  called 
Charles  stood  thus  at  gaze  with  one  another,  the 
servant  spoke  again  from  the  stairway. 

"You  rang?"  he  asked. 

She  slowly  straightened.  She  steadied  herself. 
And  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  those  of  Charles 
she  cried: 

"Yes,  yes,  I  rang,  Jones!  Your  master  is — 
dead.  Your  master's  murdered!  And  there, 
there,"  and  she  stabbed  an  accusing  finger  at  her 
erstwhile  lover,  "there  is  the  man  who  murdered 
him!" 

And  then  I  turned  from  the  window  and  ran 
from  that  house;  and  as  I  ran  I  saw  the  Dawn, 
like  a  wild,  fair  woman,  walk  up  the  eastern  sky 
with  blood-stained  feet. 

[281] 


XIIL— Words  and 

Thoughts 


XIII. — Words  and 

Thoughts 

[A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT] 
Characters: 

COUSIN  FANNY  HEMLOCK 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

MARY  SPEAKER 

JOHN  THINKER 

MARY  THINKER 

MAID 

Period,  the  present.    Place,  any  American  city. 

THE  SCENE  represents  two  drawing  rooms,  exact 
duplicates,  furnished  alike  to  the  smallest  de 
tail.  Either  room  might  be  the  reflection  of 
the  other  in  a  mirror.  Each  occupies  half  of 
the  stage.  The  division  line  between  them  is 
indicated,  towards  the  back  of  the  stage,  by 
two  pianos,  which  sit  back  to  back  at  the 
center  of  the  back  drop.  This  division  is 
carried  by  the  pianos  a  quarter  or  a  third  of 
the  way  towards  the  footlights.  The  division 
is  further  suggested,  towards  the  front  of  the 
stage,  by  a  couple  of  settees  or  couches,  which 
also  sit  back  to  back. 
[285] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


JOHN  SPEAKER  and  MARY  SPEAKER  remain  all 
the  time  in  the  room  at  the  right  of  the  stage. 
They  are  not  aware  of  JOHN  THINKER  and 
MARY  THINKER,  who  are,  throughout  the 
play,  in  the  room  at  the  left.  The  THINK 
ERS,  however,  are  aware  of  the  SPEAKERS. 

In  make-up,  looks,  dress,  etc.,  the  two  JOHNS  are 
precisely  alike.  The  same  is  true  of  MARY 
SPEAKER  and  MARY  THINKER.  The  JOHNS 
are  conventional-looking,  prosperous  Ameri 
cans  of  from  38  to  40  years  of  age.  The 
two  MARYS  are  a  few  years  younger. 

COUSIN  FANNY  HEMLOCK  is  a  drled-up,  queru 
lous  old  woman  of  seventy. 

The  Curtain,  on  rising,  discovers  the  two  JOHNS 
and  the  two  MARYS.  It  is  between  7  and  8 
in  the  evening;  they  are  all  in  evening  dress, 
and  are  preparing  to  go  out,  putting  on  their 
gloves,  etc.,  etc. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Picking  up  overcoat. ~\ 
Are  you  ready,  Mary  dear? 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Holding  out  a  gloved  handJ\ 
Quite,  John  dear.    Button  this  for  me,  won't  you, 
love? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Busy  with  glove. ~\ 

It's  been  nearly  a  year,  hasn't  it,  since  we've  been 
out  together  of  an  evening?    I'm  afraid  Cou- 
£286] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


sin  Fanny  is  terribly  trying  on  you  at  times, 
Mary. 

MARY  SPEAKER 

You  know,  John,  I  don't  consider  her  a  trial.    I 
love  Cousin  Fanny. 

JOHN  THINKER 

[Busy  with  MARY  THINKER'S  glove. ,] 
The  old  cat's  letting  us  off  to-night,  for  a  wonder, 
Mary.    She's  a  horrible  affliction! 

MARY  THINKER 
[Passionately."] 

Affliction  is  no  word.     She  makes  my  life  a  living 
hell!     I  hate  her! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

[Helping    MARY    SPEAKER    on   with    coat, 
which  action  is  simultaneously  imitated  by 
JOHN  and  MARY  THINKER.] 
Well,  we  must  bear  with  her  gently,  Mary.    I  am 
afraid  poor  Cousin  Fanny  will  not  be  with 
us  many  more  years. 

JOHN  THINKER 
[To  MARY  THINKER.] 
One  comfort  is  she'll  die  before  long! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[To  JOHN  SPEAKER.] 

Oh,  John,  you  don't  think  Cousin  Fanny's  going 
to  die,  do  you? 

MARY  THINKER 
[To  JOHN  THINKER.] 

Don't  fool  yourself  about  her  dying  soon,  John. 
There's  no  such  luck ! 
[287] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


[Enter  MAID  through  door  in  right  back  to 
JOHN  and  MARY  SPEAKER,  who  look  up. 
JOHN  and  MARY  THINKER  also  notice  en 
trance  of  MAID  and  listen.] 

MAID 

[To  MARY  SPEAKER.] 

Miss  Hemlock  sent  me  to  inquire  whether  you 
were  going  out  to-night. 

MARY  THINKER 
[To  JOHN  THINKER,  quickly.] 
The  old  cat's  up  to  something! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[To  MAID.] 

Yes.  We  were  just  starting.  Does  Miss  Hem 
lock  want  anything?  I  will  go  to  her  if  she 
wishes  to  speak  with  me. 

MAID 

She  said,  in  case  you  were  going  out,  that  I  was 
to  tell  you  not  to  do  so. 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Not  to  do  so? 

MAID 

Yes,  ma'am;  that's  what  she  said.  She  said  in 
case  you  were  getting  ready  to  go  out, 
you  were  to  change  your  plans  and  stop 
at  home. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[To  MAID.] 

Not  to  do  so?  But,  surely,  there  must  be  some 
mistake ! 

[288] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


[MAID  shakes  her  head  slowly,  deliberately, 
looking  fixedly  at  JOHN  SPEAKER;  and 
while  she  is  doing  so  JOHN  THINKER  says 
to  MARY  THINKER:] 

JOHN  THINKER 

Some  malicious  idea  is  working  in  her  head  to 
night  ! 

MAID 

[To  JOHN  SPEAKER.] 

No,  sir,  no  mistake.     She  said  very  plainly  and 
distinctly  that  you  were  not  to  go  out  to 
night. 
[MAID  bows  and  exits."] 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Cousin  Fanny  is  not  so  well  to-night,  I'm  afraid, 
dear,  or  she  would  certainly  have  put  her  re 
quest  in  some  other  way. 

MARY  SPEAKER 

If  I  didn't  love  Cousin  Fanny,  John,  I  would  be 
tempted  to  believe  that  she  deliberately  tries 
at  times  to  annoy  us. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Cousin  Fanny  is  old,  and  we  must  remember  that 
she  is  very  fond  of  us.  We  will  have  to  bear 
with  her. 

[JOHN  SPEAKER  takes  his  top  coat  and  his 
wife's  coat/  and  lays  them  on  a  chair,  while 
JOHN  THINKER,  who  has  been  frowning 
and  brooding,  flings  himself  into  chair  and 
says  to  MARY  THINKER:] 
[289] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


JOHN  THINKER 

For  cold-blooded,  devilish  nerve  in  a  man's  own 
house,  Cousin  Fanny  certainly  takes  the  cake, 
Mary! 

MARY  THINKER 

She  gets  more  spiteful  every  day.  She  knows  her 
power,  and  the  more  childish  she  gets  the 
more  delight  she  takes  in  playing  tyrant. 

JOHN  THINKER 

Cheer  up,  it  isn't  forever!  If  she  doesn't  change 
her  will  before  she  dies,  it  means  fifteen  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year.  That's  worth  a  little 
trouble ! 

MARY  THINKER 

You're  away  at  your  office  all  day.  I'm  here  at 
home  with  her.  It  is  I  who  catch  all  the 
trouble ! 

JOHN  THINKER 

Well,  after  all,  she's  more  nearly  related  to  you, 
Mary,  than  she  is  to  me. 

MARY  THINKER 

She's  my  mother's  third  cousin,  if  you  call  that 
near! 

JOHN  THINKER 

Well,  then,  she's  my  father's  fifth  cousin,  if  you 
call  that  near ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
What  were  you  thinking  of,  John,  dear? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Nothing  .  .  .  nothing,     Mary  .  .  .  except    that 

[290] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


Cousin  Fanny  is  a  poor,  lonely  old  soul,  after 
all. 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Poor,  lonely  old  woman,  indeed — it's  odd,  isn't  it, 
that  she  is  related  to  both  you  and  me,  John? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
She's  closer  to  you  than  to  me,  Mary. 

MARY  SPEAKER 

You  couldn't  call  a  fourth  or  fifth  cousin  very 
near,  John. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

It  almost  seems  as  if  you  were  trying  to  deny  the 
blood  tie,  Mary! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
No,  John,  dear,  blood  is  thicker  than  water. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
Thicker  than  water ! 

JOHN  THINKER 

Relations  are  the  most  unpleasant  persons  on  earth. 
I  hate  cousins. 

MARY  THINKER 
Especially  cousins  who  are  also  cousins-in-law ! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

But  even  if  she  were  only  my  relation,  Mary,  and 
not  related  to  you  at  all,  I  know  enough  of 
your  sweet  nature  to  know  that  she  would 
always  be  welcome  in  our  home  in  spite  of 
her  little  idiosyncrasies. 
[Enter  COUSIN  FANNY,  to  JOHN  and  MARY 
SPEAKER,  through  door  right  back.     She 
coughs  as  she  steps  forward,  leaning  on  a 
[291] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


cane,  and  puts  her  hand  to  her  chest,  stop 
ping.  Then  as  she  comes  forward,  she 
stumbles.  JOHN  and  MARY  SPEAKER  leap 
forward,  put  their  arms  behind  her,  and, 
supporting  and  leading  her,  conduct  her 
tenderly  down  stage  to  chair  at  center  of 
room  they  are  in.  JOHN  and  MARY 
THINKER,  near  together  at  table  in  their 
room,  lean  forward  eagerly  and  watch  this 
entrance,  and  when  the  old  woman  stum 
bles,  JOHN  THINKER  says  to  MARY 
THINKER,  nudging  her:] 

JOHN  THINKER 
You  see? 

MARY  THINKER 
See  what? 

JOHN  THINKER 
She  totters  I 

MARY  THINKER 
She  stumbled. 

JOHN  THINKER 
She's  getting  weaker. 

[MARY   SPEAKER   tenderly    kisses    COUSIN 
FANNY,  as  MARY  THINKER  says:] 

MARY  THINKER 
Weaker !    She'll  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  ten ! 

JOHN  THINKER 
Not  she  I 

MARY  THINKER 
The  mean  kind  always  do ! 

[292] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Tenderly,    to    COUSIN    FANNY,    arranging 

cushion  behind  her] 
Can't  I  get  you  a  wrap,  Cousin  Fanny? 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Don't  you  feel  a  draught,  Cousin  Fanny? 

MARY  THINKER 

[Bitterly,  frowning  at  other  group.] 
No  draught  will  ever  harm  her! 
COUSIN  FANNY 

[To  JOHN  SPEAKER,  sneeringly;  petulantly.] 
You're  mighty  anxious  about  a  wrap,  John!    But 
you  were  thinking  of  going  out  and  leaving 
me  practically  alone  in  the  house. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Deprecatingly .  ] 

But,  Cousin  Fanny 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Interrupting] 

Don't  deny  it !  Don't  take  the  trouble  to  deny  it ! 
Don't  lie  about  it!  You  can't  lie  to  me! 
Don't  I  see  your  evening  clothes  ?  And  Mary, 
too !  Both  of  you  were  going  out — both  of 
you! 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Cousin  Fanny,  we  gave  it  up  when  we  learned  that 
you  wanted  us  to  stop  at  home  with  you. 
Didn't  we,  John? 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[Querulously,  childishly,  shrilly] 
Don't  deny  it,  Mary,  don't  deny  it!    Don't  excuse 

[293] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


yourself!     I  can  see  you  were  going  out!     I 
can  see  your  evening  clothes ! 
MARY  SPEAKER 

We'll  go  and  change  to  something  else,  won't  we, 
John? 

[She  is  gQing,   as  she  speaks,   but   COUSIN 
FANNY  cries  out:~\ 

COUSIN  FANNY 
Stop! 

[MARY  SPEAKER  stops,  and  COUSIN  FANNY 

continues:] 

Don't  take  them  off.  I  don't  want  you  to  take 
them  off.  What  do  you  want  to  take  them 
off  for?  Are  they  too  good  for  me  to  see? 
Are  they  too  grand  for  me  to  look  at?  Ain't 
I  as  good  as  any  one  you'd  find  if  you  went 
out?  Heh? 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Cousin  Fanny,  I  didn't  mean  that.     I  meant 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Interrupting.] 

I  know  what  you  meant !  Don't  tell  me  what  you 
meant,  Mary.  You  meant  to  slip  out  and 
leave  me  here  alone,  both  of  you.  It's  lucky 
I  caught  you  in  time.  It's  lucky  I  have 
money!  It's  lucky  I  don't  have  to  put  up 
with  the  treatment  most  old  folks  get.  I'd 
starve,  if  I  were  poor!  I'd  die  of  hunger 
and  neglect ! 

[She   begins   to   cry,   and  MARY  SPEAKER 
says:] 

[294] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


MARY  SPEAKER 
No,  no,  no,  Cousin  Fanny! 

[MARY  SPEAKER  soothes  her,  in  pantomime, 
and  pets  her,  trying  to  take  her  hands  away 
from  her  face,  COUSIN  FANNY  resisting, 
like  a  spoiled  and  spiteful  child.  JOHN 
SPEAKER,  behind  COUSIN  FANNY  and  his 
wife,  walks  up  and  down,  with  his  eyes  on 
them,  running  his  hand  nervously  and  ex 
citedly  through  his  hair.  While  this 
pantomime  goes  on,  JOHN  and  MARY 
THINKER  are  watching  and  saying :] 

JOHN  THINKER 

This  is  to  be  one  of  Cousin  Fanny's  pleasant  eve 
nings! 

MARY  THINKER 
This  happens  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

JOHN  THINKER 
She's  not  really  crying. 

MARY  THINKER 
Pretence !    She  works  it  up  to  be  unpleasant. 

JOHN  THINKER 
The  old  she-devil ! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

[Taking  COUSIN  FANNY'S  handJ\ 
You  know,  Cousin  Fanny,  that  we  try  to  do  our 
duty  by  you. 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Flinging  his  hand  off.~\ 

You  try  to  do  your  duty  by  my  money !     I  know ! 

[295] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


I  see!  You  talk  of  love  and  duty,  but  it's 
my  money  you  want !  But  I  may  fool  you — 
I  may  fool  you  yet.  It's  not  too  late  to  change 
my  will.  It's  not  too  late  to  leave  it  all  to 
charity ! 

{She  speaks  these  lines  with  a  cunning  leer, 
and  JOHN  THINKER,  nudging  MARY 
THINKER  and  pointing  to  her,  says:] 

JOHN  THINKER 
The  old  cat  is  capable  of  it,  too ! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[To  COUSIN  FANNY.] 

If  you  should  leave  your  money  to  charity,  Cousin 
Fanny,  you  would  find  it  made  no  difference 
with  us.  You  know  blood  is  thicker  than 
water,  Cousin  Fanny! 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Shrewdly,  maliciously.] 

So  is  sticky  flypaper ! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Come,  come,  you  don't  doubt  the  genuineness  of 
our  affection,  do  you,  Cousin  Fanny?  YouVe 
known  me  from  my  boyhood,  Cousin  Fanny, 
and  you've  lived  with  us  for  ten  years.  You 
ought  to  know  us  by  this  time!  You  ought 
to  know  us  in  ten  years ! 

MARY  THINKER 
Ten  years  of  torture ! 

JOHN  THINKER 
It  ca n't  last  much  longer ! 

[296] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  SPEAKER 

[Who  has  taken  her  hand  again,  and  has 

been  patting  it  as  a  continuation  of  his  last 

speech,  and  looking  at  her  fondly.] 

You  trust  us,   don't  you,    Cousin   Fanny?     You 

really  are  sure  of  our  affection,  aren't  you? 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[To  JOHN  SPEAKER.     She  shows  that  she 
really    is    willing    to    be    convinced;    she 
searches  their  faces  wistfully;  she  is  pa 
thetically  eager.] 
John,  John,  you  really  do  care  for  me,  don't  you? 

[She  takes  a  hand  of  each.~\ 

It  isn't  all  on  account  of  my  money,  is  it?     If 
you  knew  I  hadn't  a  cent,  you'd  still  be  good 
to  me,  wouldn't  you? 
JOHN  SPEAKER  AND  MARY  SPEAKER 
[Together.] 
Yes,  yes,  Cousin  Fanny! 

COUSIN  FANNY 

If  I  lost  it  all;  if  I  told  you  I'd  lost  it  all,  you'd 
be  just  the  same,  wouldn't  you  ? 
[JOHN  SPEAKER  and  MARY  SPEAKER  ex 
change  glances  over  her  head,  and  JOHN 
SPEAKER    drops    her   hand,    while    JOHN 
THINKER  grabs   MARY  THINKER  excit 
edly  by  the  arm  and  says  quickly:] 

JOHN  THINKER 

My  God,  you  don't  suppose  she's  really  lost  it,  do 
you? 

[297] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


MARY  THINKER 

No !  This  is  just  one  of  her  cunning  spells  now. 
She  can  be  as  crafty  as  a  witch. 

COUSIN  FANNY 

If  I  hadn't  a  cent  you'd  still  care  for  me,  wouldn't 
you,  Mary? 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Why,  Cousin  Fanny,  you  know  I  would ! 

COUSIN  FANNY 

But  I'm  hard  on  you  at  times.  I'm  unjust.  I 
don't  mean  to  be  spiteful,  but  I  am  spiteful. 
When  we  get  old  we  get  suspicious  of  people. 
We  get  suspicious  of  everybody.  And  sus 
picion  makes  us  spiteful  and  unjust.  I  know 
I'm  not  easy  to  live  with,  Mary. 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Kissing  COUSIN  FANNY.] 
You  get  such  strange  notions,  Cousin  Fanny ! 

JOHN  THINKER 
And  such  true  ones,  Cousin  Fanny ! 

COUSIN  FANNY 

Tell  me  the  truth,  Mary.     You  find  me  a  trial, 
Mary.    You  and  John  find  me  a  trial! 
MARY  SPEAKER  AND  JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Together.'] 
Never,  Cousin  Fanny! 

MARY  THINKER  AND  JOHN  THINKER 
[Together.'] 
Always,  Cousin  Fanny! 

COUSIN  FANNY 
And  that  is  the  truth  ? 

[298] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  SPEAKER,  JOHN  THINKER,  MARY  SPEAKER 

AND  MARY  THINKER 
[All  together.'] 
And  that  is  the  truth,  Cousin  Fanny! 

COUSIN  FANNY 
You  don't  know  how  suspicious  one  gets ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Petting  her.} 

But  suspicion  never  stays  long  in  your  good  heart, 
Cousin  Fanny.  There's  no  room  for  it  there, 
I  know.  But  don't  you  think  you'd  better  go 
to  bed  now?  Let  me  call  the  maid. 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[Rousing  up  in  chair;  suspicion  and  mean 
ness  all  awake  again.~\ 

To  bed?  Why  to  bed?  Why  do  you  want  to 
pack  me  off  to  bed?  I  know !  I  know  why ! 
You  want  me  to  go  to  bed  so  you  two  can 
talk  about  me.  So  you  can  talk  me  over! 
So  you  can  speculate  on  how  long  I  will  live. 
I  know  you!  I  know  what  you  talk  about 
when  I'm  not  around !  I  know  what  you've 
been  waiting  and  hoping  for  the  last  ten 
years ! 

[Begins  to  cry.~\ 

Well,  you  won't  have  long  to  wait  now.  The 
time's  almost  come !  I  feel  it's  almost  here. 
You'll  get  the  money  soon  enough ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Soothing  her.} 

There,  there,  Cousin  Fanny,  don't  go  on  like  this ! 

[299] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


You  know  it  isn't  true — you  know  you'll  live 

ten  years  yet! 

[JOHN  SPEAKER  runs  his  hands  through  his 
hair  and  looks  silently  at  MARY  SPEAKER, 
and  JOHN  THINKER,  with  the  same  ges 
ture,  says  to  MARY  THINKER:] 

JOHN  THINKER 

If  I  thought  she'd  live  ten  years  yet ! 

[Pauses.] 

MARY  THINKER 

Well,  if  you  thought  she'd  live  ten  years  yet ? 

JOHN  THINKER 
\With  a  gesture  of  despair. ,] 
My  God — ten  years  like  the  last  ten  years !    Ten 
years!      Talk  about  earning  money!     If  it 
hasn't  been  earned  ten  times  over! 

MARY  THINKER 
[Fiercely.] 

You  see  it  mornings  and  evenings.  I  have  it  all 
day  long,  and  every  day.  I've  had  it  for  ten 
years.  I  go  nowhere,  I  see  no  one.  I  have 
no  pleasures.  I  have  no  friends;  I've  lost 
my  friends.  I'm  losing  my  youth.  I'm  losing 
my  looks.  I'm  losing  my  very  soul.  I'm 
shedding  my  life's  blood  drop  by  drop  to 
keep  that  querulous  fool  alive — just  merely 
alive !  I'm  tired  of  it  I  I'm  sick  of  it !  I'm 
desperate!  I'm  dying  from  her,  I  tell  you! 

MARY  SPEAKER 

[Still  soothing  COUSIN  FANNY,  but  speaking 
[300] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


with  one  hand  nervously  clutching  her  own 
head  as  she  does  so.'] 

Come,  come,  Cousin  Fanny — you'd  better  go  to 
bed  now! 

COUSIN  FANNY 

I  won't  go  to  bed  yet!  I  want  my  medicine.  It's 
time  for  my  medicine  now.  I  won't  go  to 
bed  till  I've  had  my  sleeping  tablets. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
Where  are  they,  Cousin  Fanny? 

COUSIN  FANNY 

On  top  of  the  bookcase  there.    The  small  phial. 
[JOHN  SPEAKER  goes  to  the  bookcase  and 
begins  to  rummage  for  phial,  while  JOHN 
THINKER  says,  meditatively:'] 

JOHN  THINKER 

I  suppose  if  one  ever  gave  her  the  wrong  medicine 
by  mistake  it  would  be  called  by  some  ugly 
name! 

MARY  THINKER 

People  like  her  never  get  the  wrong  medicine  given 
to  them,  and  never  take  it  by  mistake  them 
selves. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Finding  bottle;  examining  it.~\ 
See  here,  Cousin  Fanny,  didn't  you  have  one  of 
these  about  an  hour  ago?     Didn't  I  see  you 
take  one  of  them  right  after  dinner? 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Peevishly.'] 

I  don't  know.     I  don't  remember.     I  want  one 

[301] 


Carter  and  Oilier  People 


now,  anyhow.  My  nerves  are  on  the  jump. 
You  have  got  all  my  nerves  on  the  jump. 
I'll  take  one,  and  nap  here  in  the  chair. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[To  MARY  SPEAKER.] 

She  took  one  about  an  hour  ago.  I  don't  think  it's 
quite  right  to  let  her  have  another  so  soon. 
They  have  a  powerful  depressing  effect  on 
the  heart. 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Let  me  see  which  ones  they  are. 

[JOHN  SPEAKER  holds  the  bottle  out  towards 
MARY  SPEAKER,  in  front  of  COUSIN 
FANNY.  COUSIN  FANNY  snatches  it  with 
a  sudden  motion^  and  laughs  childishly. 
JOHN  SPEAKER  and  MARY  SPEAKER  look 
at  each  other  inquiringly  over  her  headJ\ 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

She  really  shouldn't  have  another  one  now,  I'm 
afraid,  dear.     It  might  be  pretty  serious. 
[To  COUSIN  FANNY.] 

You  did  take  one  right  after  dinner,  didn't  you, 
Cousin  Fanny? 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[Hugging  bottle  to  her  very  excitedly. ,] 
No !    No !    I  tell  you  I  didn't !    I  will  take  one ! 
You  don't  want  me  to  get  to  sleep!     You 
don't  want  me  to  get  any  rest!     You  want 
me  to  die! 

JOHN  THINKER 
I  know  that  she  did  have  one. 

[302] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


MARY  SPEAKER 
[To  JOHN  SPEAKER.] 
What  can  you  do,  dear? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Taking  hold  of  COUSIN  FANNY'S  hands, 

and  trying  to  take  phial  gently.] 
See  here,  Cousin  Fanny,  you  must  be  reasonable 
.  .  .  you    mustn't   be    stubborn    about    this. 
You  can't  have  another  tablet  now.    It's  dan 
gerous.     It  might  even  kill  you ! 

JOHN  THINKER 
It  would  kill  her  as  certainly  as  she  sits  there. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Come,  come,  Cousin  Fanny  ...  it  might  be  dan 
gerous. 

MARY  SPEAKER 

John,  don't  struggle  with  her!  Don't  you  know  if 
you  struggle  with  her  it  is  likely  to  prove 
fatal?  The  doctor  says  the  least  strain  will 
prove  fatal. 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Whimpering  and  struggling."] 
Let  me  have  it!     Let  me  alone!     Let  go  of  my 
hands !    You  want  to  kill  me !    You  want  me 
to  die  so  you  can  get  my  money! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Releasing  her.~\ 

No!  No!  No!  Cousin  Fanny  .  .  .  Come,  be 
reasonable ! 

[He  reaches  for  her  hands  again,  and  she 
[303] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


grabs  his  hand  and  bites  it.     He  draws 
back  and  says:} 
Damn ! 

[Nurses  his  hand.} 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Did  she  bite  you? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
Yes. 

[Nurses  his  hand,  and  MARY  SPEAKER  ex 
amines  it,  while  COUSIN  FANNY  pulls  cork 
from  phial  with  teeth,  and  JOHN  THINKER 
says:] 

JOHN  THINKER 
The  old  viper  has  teeth  yet! 

MARY  THINKER 

She  is  a  cat  .  .  .  she  is  a  she-devil  .  .  .  she  is  a 
witch  .  .  .  she  has  a  bad  heart.  .  .  . 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

[To  MARY  SPEAKER,  pointing  to  COUSIN 
FANNY,  who  is  shaking  tablet  out  of  bot 
tle;  she  drops  one  and  gropes  for  it,  and 
shakes  another  more  carefully,  with  air  of 
childish  triumph.'] 

Mary,  what  can  I  do?  She  will  have  it!  And  if 
I  struggle  with  her  it  will  kill  her!  She  is 
too  weak  to  struggle!  It  will  kill  her  to 
struggle !  And  if  I  let  her  take  the  tablet  it 
may  do  her  harm ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Perhaps  the  tablet  won't  do  her  any  harm,  John. 

[304] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  THINKER 

It  will  kill  her  as  surely  as  she  sits  there.  I  know 
it  will  and  you  know  it  will. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Maybe  it  won't  hurt  her,  Mary  .  .  .  but  we  can 
never  tell.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  I'm  afraid 
it  really  might  harm  her.  .  .  . 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[Putting  tablet  into  her  mouth.'} 
There !    I'm  going  to  sleep,  now.  .  .  .  I'm  going 
to  sleep  in  spite  of  you.    You  hate  me — both 
of  you  hate  me — but  you  can't  prevent  me 
going  to  sleep ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 

She's  taken  it,  John.  Do  you  suppose  she  really 
did  have  one  before? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[To  COUSIN  FANNY.] 

Cousin  Fanny,  you  didn't  have  one  before,  did 
you? 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[She  has  closed  her  eyes;  she  opens  them  and 
rocks  back  and  forth,  laughing  foolishly.'] 
Yes! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

[Taking    out  handkerchief;   mopping   fore- 
~  head.] 

I  don't  believe  she  did.  She  says  she  did,  but  she 
doesn't  know. 

[305] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


COUSIN  FANNY 
[Rocking  and  laughing  sillily. ,] 
Yes,  I  did!    You  know  I  did! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

She  doesn't  know.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  know  whether 

she  did  or  not.  .  .  .  She  hasn't  really  been 

right  in  her  mind  for  a  long  time.     I  don't 

think  she  had  one  before. 

[As  he  speaks  COUSIN  FANNY  ceases  rocking 

and  leans  back  in  her  chair,  closing  her 

eyes.     From  this  time  on  the  two  JOHNS 

and  the  two  MARYS  stare  at  her  intently, 

never  taking  their  eyes  of  of  her  while  they 

speak.'] 

JOHN  THINKER 
She  did  have  one  before. 

MARY  THINKER 
I  know  she  did. 

JOHN  THINKER 

Will  she  die?  Will  I  see  her  die?  I  should  hate 
to  see  her  die! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

She  would  have  that  tablet  ...  she  WOULD 
have  it.  If  I  had  taken  it  away  from  her 
by  force  it  would  have  killed  her;  the  strug 
gle  would  have  killed  her. 

JOHN  THINKER 
Will  I  see  her  die?    Will  she  die? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

I  let  her  have  it  to  save  her  life  ...  it  was  to 
save  her  life  that  I  quit  struggling  with  her. 
[306] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  THINKER 

If  she  dies  .  .  .  but  will  she  die? 
MARY  THINKER 
She  will  die! 

COUSIN  FANNY 

[Rousing  from  her  lethargy  slightly;  open 
ing  her  eyes.'] 

John  .  .  .  Mary.  .  .  .  You  really  love  me, 
don't  you?  Don't  you?  You  really  .  .  . 
really  .  .  . 

[Sinks  back,  with  head  slightly  on  one  side 
and  eyes  closed  again;  does  not  move  after 

this.'} 

MARY  SPEAKER 

[They  all  speak  with  lowered  voices  now.] 
She  is  asleep.     She  really  needed  the  tablet.     It 
was  a  mercy  she  got  it.    She  was  nervous  and 
overwrought,  and  it  has  put  her  to  sleep. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Yes,  it  was  a  mercy  she  got  it.  She  was  nervous 
and  overwrought,  and  it  has  put  her  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  And  you  know,  Mary,  she  would  have 
t  .  .  .  if  I  had  struggled  with  her,  she  would 
have  died!  A  struggle  would  have  killed 
her. 

JOHN  THINKER 

And  now  she  will  die  because  there  was  no  strug 
gle. 

MARY  THINKER 

She  will  die. 

[307] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


JOHN  SPEAKER 
Is  she  breathing  quite  naturally,  Mary? 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Quite.    Quite  naturally. 

MARY  THINKER 
Death  is  quite  natural. 

JOHN  THINKER 
And  she  is  dying. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Well,  if  she  had  struggled  and  died  ...  if  she 
had  died  through  any  fault  of  mine  ...  I 
would  always  have  reproached  myself.  .  .  . 

MARY  SPEAKER 

You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  for.  You 
need  never  reproach  yourself  with  regard  to 
her.  .  .  . 

JOHN  THINKER 

She  was  old.  She  was  very  old.  She  will  be  better 
dead. 

MARY  THINKER 
She  is  not  quite  dead. 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

I  don't  like  the  way  she  is  breathing.  .  .  .  She  is 
scarcely  breathing.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  seem  to 
be  breathing  at  all ! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
Old  people  breathe  very  quietly. 
MARY  THINKER 
Old  people  die  very  quietly. 

JOHN  THINKER 
And  she  is  dying. 

[308] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


MARY  THINKER 
She  is  dead! 

JOHN  THINKER 
Mary  .  .  .  Mary  .  .  .  is  she  breathing  at  all? 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Call  the  maid.  .  .  .  Send  for  the  doctor.  .  .  . 
Call  the  maid! 

JOHN  THINKER 
It  is  too  late  for  any  doctor. 

MARY  THINKER 
Too  late! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 

Mary,  Mary.  .  .  .  My  God  .  .  .  she  can't  be 
dead! 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Bending  above  her.'] 

John,  dear  .  .  .  try  to  bear  it  bravely  .  .  .  but 
.  .  .  but  I'm  afraid  she  is.  ...  Poor  Cousin 
Fanny  has  left  us! 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
[Rapidly.] 

Poor  Cousin  Fanny.  .  .  .  Poor  Cousin  Fanny. 
.  .  .  Poor  Cousin  Fanny.  .  .  . 

JOHN  THINKER 

Fifteen  thousand  a  year  .  .  .  fifteen  thousand  a 
year.  .  .  .  Why  do  I  think  of  that?  .  .  . 
But  I  can't  help  it.  ...  I  can't  help  thinking 
of  it.  ... 

MARY  SPEAKER 
I'll  go  get  the  maid. 
[Going.'] 

[309] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


JOHN  SPEAKER 

Stop.  .  .  .  Wait,  Mary.  .  .  .  Don't  call  her  yet 
.  .  .  get  her  presently.  ...  I  don't  want  to 
be  alone  just  now.  .  .  .  I'm  in  a  kind  of 
fog.  .  .  . 

[Lights  go  out  as  he  says  this;  he  continues 
in  the  darkness.'] 

I'm  all  in  the  dark. 

[Lights  on  again.] 

[In  the  interim,  which  is  very  shortt  COUSIN 
FANNY  has  gone  over  to  the  room  on  the 
left  in  which  are  JOHN  and  MARY 
THINKER,  and  sits  in  chair  corresponding 
to  one  which  she  has  just  left. 

She  is  silent  and  motionless,  but  her  head 
is  lifted;  her  eyes  are  open;  she  is  alive 
again.  When  lights  go  on  again,  JOHN 
and  MARY  SPEAKER  still  stand  before 
chair  she  has  left  as  if  she  were  in  it;  it 
is  apparent  that  they  believe  themselves 
to  be  still  looking  at  the  old  woman.] 

MARY  SPEAKER 

Nonsense  ...  all  in  the  dark?  .  .  .  What  do 
you  mean  by  all  in  the  dark? 

JOHN  SPEAKER 
Nothing  .  .  .  nothing  now.     It  has  passed.  .  .  . 

[Pointing   to   chair  where  COUSIN   FANNY 
was.]     She  died  with  a  smile  on  her  face! 
[310] 


Words  and  Thoughts 


JOHN  THINKER 

But  she  isn't  there.  .   .  .   Cousin  Fanny  isn't  there. 
.  .   .  She's  here.   .  .  .  She's  over  here  with 
us  ...  over  here  with  US! 
MARY  THINKER 
Here  with  us  ...  over  here,  forever,  now. 

MARY  SPEAKER 
[Holding  JOHN  SPEAKER'S  hand  and  gazing 

at  vacant  chair. ] 

How  beautiful  she  looks!  She  is  at  rest,  now! 
She  is  better  off  so.  Better  dead.  She  is 
better  at  peace ! 

JOHN  THINKER 

[Violently;  starting  towards  other  room.'] 
My  God.     I'm  going  to  stop  it  ...  stop  it  ... 
stop  that  lying  .   .  .  stop  it  at  any  cost.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  stop  that  pretending  .  .  .  that 
damned  pretending.  .  .  . 

MARY  THINKER 
[Quickly  getting  in  front  of  him;  holding 

him  back.] 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

JOHN  THINKER 

Stop  it,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Tell  the  truth  .  .  .  stop 
that  pretense.  .  .  . 

[Moves  towards  the  other  room.  As  he 
does  so,  MARY  SPEAKER  and  JOHN 
SPEAKER,  for  the  first  time  become  aware 
of  JOHN  and  MARY  THINKER,  and  shrink 
back  in  terror  and  alarm,  clinging  together, 
confused,  convicted,  abject,  retreating, 
[311] 


Carter  and  Other  People 


powerless;  COUSIN  FANNY  leaps  in  from 
of  JOHN  THINKER  at  same  instant,  ana 
bars  him  back,  saying:] 

COUSIN  FANNY 
Stop! 

JOHN  THINKER 
Why?    I  will  stop  this  pretense  .  .  .  Why  not? 

COUSIN  FANNY 
[All  four  of  the  others  lean  forward    md 

hang  eagerly  upon  her  words.} 
You  must  not.    It  can't  be  done.    It  is  the  founda 
tion  upon  which  your  society  rests.      It  is 
necessary  .  .  .  over  there! 

CURTAIN 

(i) 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immedi 


APR  10  '67  -4  P 


LOAN 


LD  2lA-60m-2.'67 
(H241slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  67059 


